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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888966">Under the Banner</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantiumDragonfly/pseuds/AdamantiumDragonfly'>AdamantiumDragonfly</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarilz1701/pseuds/silmarilz1701'>silmarilz1701</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Russian Snipers [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Band of Brothers (TV 2001)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Even the Good Guys aren't all Good Guys, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Male-Female Friendship, NKVD, Pandemic Project, Period Typical Bigotry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Predation, Slow Burn, Soviet Union, Thriller, Tragedy, suicide of a loved one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:49:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>142,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888966</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantiumDragonfly/pseuds/AdamantiumDragonfly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarilz1701/pseuds/silmarilz1701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight scrutinized by friend and foe. With the outbreak of the war, Sveta found a taste of freedom with the snipers.</p><p>For Zhanna, her place in the military was the only thing she could be proud of, giving her a tie to the place she called home. With the grace of others looming over her head, Zhanna had only one chance to be more than the blood inside her veins and the prayer on her lips.</p><p>Then the Nazis invaded the Motherland. Tasked with reaching the Allies by her father, Sveta once more found herself a political pawn, taking Zhanna with her to the Allies on a mission for her father. But with the Eastern Front crumbling, the girls found themselves at the mercy of America for a way home. That meant the Airborne.</p><p>They were already soldiers. How hard could that be? Zhanna may be able to embrace the company of those around her. But for Sveta, the daughter of a man who represented everything the Allies worked against in the Bolshevik Revolution, it may be too difficult.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Russian Snipers [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome! We hope you enjoy this collaborative take on the OC Joins Easy trope. This story draws heavily on Soviet history and features two female snipers. Women were active members of the Russian military in WWII, and we encourage you to check them out! </p><p>Updates to this fic will be every Saturday and Wednesday. If you'd like to speak with us, feel free to contact either JulianneDay1701 or AdamantiumDragonfly on Tumblr.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>PROLOGUE</strong>
</p>
<p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/>
<p>
  <strong>16 April 1935 | Rostov-on-Don, Soviet Union</strong>
</p><hr/>
<p>Everything hurt. The sharp pangs in her stomach sent ripples of agony through her entire body. All Sveta wanted to do was curl up into a ball and make the aching cramps stop. They'd not fed her more than a few slices of bread in two days. The men had been more generous with water. They didn't want her dead.</p>
<p>She could smell the mold. The wood beneath her bare feet had faded to grey long ago. Cobwebs filled the dark corners of the attic they had pushed her into. Sveta spent her day just praying that whatever had made the webs would stay the hell away from her.</p>
<p>Her wrists ached. The ropes that held them together were tight, the fibers biting into her skin. Based on the circular window at the far end of the attic, they'd taken her ten days ago. Ten days of rotting away with the floorboards. Ten days of shivering in her dirtied slip and taking twice-daily trips into the house to use the bathroom. Bruises littered her arms from the harsh treatment.</p>
<p>Sveta's matted, dark hair fell in her face each time she moved. She missed her mom. All she wanted was to hug her, feel her warm cheek against her own, and her soft, gentle voice. She just wanted her mom.</p>
<p>The men who took her would face her father's wrath. That much she knew. No one could touch her and not suffer. Premier Stalin would see to that. Her father would get her out.</p>
<p>Sveta shifted. Her muscles screamed as she straightened out her legs. A few cuts on the skin had finally scabbed. Anger surged through her. How dare they! Sveta wanted to scream. And then she wanted to sob. She ached for her mother.</p>
<p>The key turned in the door to her right. Sveta pulled her legs back in and put the angriest expression on her face she could muster. After a few moments of metal jiggling, the door opened. The man who came through was unfamiliar.</p>
<p>He had a large dark mustache and a small beard. Dark eyes glared down at her from a face she could only say looked murderous. His shoulders were wide, and he stood tall. Sveta spent all her energy trying not to sob.</p>
<p>"Sveta, correct?" he asked. His voice was softer than she anticipated, but to her ears it stung. The man walked over to her. "Sveta-"</p>
<p>"I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, and you will let me go," she snipped. "My dad will see you hanged, or shot, or, or sent to the gulag! If you let me go, I might speak to him on your behalf so you only suffer one of those!" Even as she spoke, she shook. Sveta knew her threats were hollow.</p>
<p>The man knew it too. "Ah, Sveta. Child. All we want is your father."</p>
<p>"He'll come. He'll come and he'll see you dead. The Premier will send him troops, and he'll come and kill all of you! You, you traitors. You'll burn for touching me."</p>
<p>His fist slammed into her face. Sveta screamed, whimpering as her mind spun. Her bound hands flew to her face. But the next strike never came. Instead, she felt something dripping from her burning cheek. Removing her hands, her eyes widened as her blood reddened her pale fingers. Her breathing faltered.</p>
<p>"Your father hasn't taught you respect," the man snapped. He shook his head. "A child should keep her mouth shut."</p>
<p>Sveta didn't respond. It took all her strength to keep back tears. Instead, she just stared into the man's dark eyes. The anger, she'd never seen anything like it. He held a hatred in him. Sveta shivered. She looked away.</p>
<p>The echo of his boots against the floor and the slamming of the door gave Sveta enough permission to let go. A sob escaped her. She didn't understand! What had she done? Tears streamed down her face. When they reached the cut, Sveta hissed in pain.</p>
<p>She heard a crash. Screams followed shouts. Then came a popping sound that deafened her ears as it drew closer. More screams and more shouts, and crashes beneath her feet echoed through to the attic. Sveta felt her chest tighten. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. This was it. She would die alone in an attic, hands bound like a slave. She shook, sobbing.</p>
<p>Footsteps slammed against the wooden stairs. Three times, something heavy slammed into the door. At a forth, it crashed to the ground. Sveta screamed, sobbing, begging to be spared. Cold hands grabbed her. They dragged her to her feet. Sveta screamed again.</p>
<p>"Quiet, Samsonova!"'</p>
<p>She looked at him closer. Standing at his shoulders, she found herself mere inches from his wool brown coat. His hat, a brilliant blue with a red band, sat fixed on his head, unbothered by the harsh movements. She knew that hat.</p>
<p>The man pushed her forward towards the door. With her hands still bound, she nearly fell on her face. At the stairs, another young man in the same uniform stood with his pistol ready. She heard no more screams or shouts.</p>
<p>"Come on, Svetlana," the man said. "Your father sent us."</p>
<p>Her heart still pounded. But she knew they were telling the truth. She'd seen the men in the blue caps around her father's estate. Her mom had always told her to smile around them, just like she had to smile around Premier Stalin's men. So she forced a smile on her face through the tears and terror.</p>
<p>She went down the stairs as gracefully as she could. With each step, she felt weaker, her energy fading from the adrenaline. The man at the bottom, with blue eyes and blonde hair beneath the cap, grabbed her arm. He took out a knife and sawed through the rough ropes.</p>
<p>When they fell to the ground, she took a deep breath. Pain shot through her again as she tried to move her wrists. But the man urged her forward. Sveta looked to the right down the hall. The derelict building had blood on the walls. The man who had punched her lay bleeding, dead, eyes glazed over. Her smile grew. She'd told him what would happen. She'd told him her father would come!</p>
<p>"Come on," the man ordered. He grabbed her arm, squeezing one of the bruises. At her whimper, he only loosened his grip a bit. "Now, Svetlana."</p>
<p>She looked away from the dead man. Before long, they reached the stairs down. Her eyes widened as she hit the middle floor of the house, her bare feet slamming against the wood. Bodies lay everywhere. They were all the men she'd seen over the past ten days. But more than that, she saw women too. They had blonde hair stained with blood, a few clutching at each other. They lay in a heap on the wood.</p>
<p>They pushed her to the next stairs. Picking her way around the pale faces of the dead women, she tried to remind herself they were traitors to the Motherland. Her father would only punish traitors. Good and loyal Russians would never face such a fate.</p>
<p>She began to descend the last of the stairs. A group of the blue-capped men stood at the bottom, guns ready and trained on the outside. Night had fallen, the lights in the house flooding out through the open door. She started shivering. The man holding her arm noticed.</p>
<p>"Petrov, find her a coat and shoes."</p>
<p>Sveta watched as one man, smaller than the others, went to a room on the right. Her stomach dropped. Her heart stopped. Sveta couldn't believe her eyes. Three bodies lay on the floor, smaller than the others, with a woman behind them. They were children.</p>
<p>Traitor children. But her practiced smile fell. They were children. Like her. One even looked like Svetlana Stalina, with her red hair. The small man with the blue cap stopped in the heap of the children's bleeding bodies. He bent down. Soon, he'd stripped off the boots of the oldest girl. Next he took a coat she clutched in her arms.</p>
<p>"Here, put these on Samsonova." He held out the coat and placed the boots at her feet. "Now."</p>
<p>She tore her gaze away from the pile of children on the floor. Her eyes met his. The softness she'd seen early turned hard. Smile, Sveta. She forced herself to do so. The coat went around her body. Forcing down the bile she felt clawing its way up her throat, she slipped her feet into the boots. They fit perfectly.</p>
<p>Hours in the back of a black car passed. No one spoke, not the two men in the front with blue caps, nor the man to her left. She noticed the man to her left had his pistol in his lap. Bloodstains littered his wool uniform. When he caught her staring, she whipped her head to look out the car at the passing, barren countryside.</p>
<p>By the time they approached Stalingrad, Sveta struggled to stay awake. Exhaustion threatened to consume her, and if she had got the sight of the murdered kids from her mind, she probably would've slept with ease. But as the street lamps lining the road to the estate reared up in front, she shook herself awake. The overwhelming desire to find her mom filled her entire body.</p>
<p>When the car stopped before it, the man in the passenger seat got out first and opened her door. She stepped out into the cold. For a moment, she felt thankful for the boots and the coat. Only when she remembered where they'd come from did she stumble. This time, she couldn't hold back the retching. Despite having nothing in her body to expel, she fell to the ground and heaved.</p>
<p>After she had regained control, the man hoisted her to her feet. She stumbled. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her firmly towards the main doors. As she came closer, they swung open and light flooded the compound. Her hands flew to her face. But the sound of a woman's sob echoed around her, and Sveta removed her arms.</p>
<p>"Sveta!" Her mom shrieked. She ran forward, grabbing her young daughter firmly. "Oh my god, Sveta. Oh my god." Pulling her into a hug, she couldn't stop her tears. "Sveta."</p>
<p>She melted into her mother's embrace in a way she hadn't since she was little. But as much as she liked to think at thirteen, she was grown, the ten days in captivity had told her otherwise. With a sob, she buried her face in her mother's neck.</p>
<p>"Veronika, get her inside."</p>
<p>At the sound of her father's voice, Sveta opened her eyes. Laying against her mother's shoulder, she could see him. The great Alexander Alexeyevich Samsonov, friend of Premier Stalin, Comrade of all Russia. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.</p>
<p>"Come on, Sveta." Her mother finally pulled herself away. "Get inside. We'll clean you up, get you some food, alright?"</p>
<p>Sveta nodded, pulling herself together. No words formed, though. She followed her mom's gaze to where her father had moved to speak to the blue-capped men. She shivered, but not from the cold. Beside her, her mother tensed.</p>
<p>"Come on," she finally repeated. "Go inside."</p>
<p>Sveta did as asked. It didn't take long for the workers of the estate to sweep in and help. They took away the coat and shoes. Her mother took her hand, careful not to hurt the blue and black bruises where the ropes had held them fast. She guided her gently up the stairs to the second level.</p>
<p>Her mother drew a bath. As she waited, Sveta chewed on some bread and butter. It felt good to eat. Stripped down, she eased herself into the clawfoot tub and closed her eyes. Usually she would've refused her mother's presence, but as she went to leave, Sveta asked her to stay.</p>
<p>"Who are they, mom?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Who, Sveta?"</p>
<p>Sveta turned to her. "The soldiers with the blue caps."</p>
<p>Her mother stiffened. With a sigh, she sat down on the ground, back against the wall. "They're police. They serve the Motherland."</p>
<p>"The kids they killed, were they traitors to Russia, then?" Sveta didn't know what answer she wanted. All she really knew, was that if her mom said they were traitors, that was that. And traitors to Russia could not be permitted. That's what her father said.</p>
<p>"Sveta, please. Don't ask," she whispered.</p>
<p>Sveta looked at her, confused. "They work for Father, right? So they punish traitors. Anyone not loyal to Russia."</p>
<p>"Sveta!" Veronika sighed. She scooted closer to the tub, wiping a bit of dirt from her daughter's cheek. "The more you know, the more dangerous it is. The police, they do things that you and I would never think of doing." Her voice fell even further. "They are not our friends, Sveta."</p>
<p>"But they work for father?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "Yes. He's one of them in every way."</p>
<p>Every way. Sveta's eyes widened. She understood. The looks her mother always cast his way made sense. Fear gripped her. Her father would kill children. He did what was necessary- but was it necessary? How could it be necessary to kill children?</p>
<p>"Clean yourself up. You need to rest." Veronika forced herself to smile. "We are loyal Russians, Sveta. You will smile, and you will do what your father asks. If Premier Stalin comes, you will do what he asks as well. Do you understand? We do what is necessary."</p>
<p>"Yes." But as her mother got up to leave, she continued, "Are we different from them, then? If we do everything as asked."</p>
<p>Veronika froze. Her blue eyes glistened with tears. And yet she smiled. "Someday, maybe, we won't do as asked. But until then, you will act the part. You will smile, and you will kiss his cheek, and you will do what he says."</p>
<p>With nothing to say, Sveta just nodded. She could sense her mother's fear. She'd seen it day in and day out, but she'd never understood it. Now she did. The blue-caps weren't friends. She'd never had friends, but she knew now, they were not it.</p>
<p>As the door closed behind her mother, she looked at the metal spout. Her distorted reflection stared back. The cut from her cheek to below her lip gleamed red and puffy. With a deep breath, she nodded, and then she smiled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. PART ONE: ...by your side...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PART ONE</p><p>"Never listen when they tell you that Man and the animals have a common interest,<br/>that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity of the others.<br/>It is all lies."</p><p>- George Orwell, Animal Farm</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>5 December 1942 | Fort Benning, Georgia, United States</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>American Military complexes were enormous.</p><p>Too many buildings, too many people all marching around like tin soldiers and too much noise. Everyone was shouting or marching or singing. Zhanna wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a display of power, meant to intimidate, or if they were really, always like this. If it was a fear tactic, it was working. She was dwarfed by the men who passed her and even by the officer who led them to whatever corner of the base they were called to.</p><p>They had passed so many buildings, all of fresh, yellow pine boards that she had lost count. These barracks were new, still smelling of sawdust. Even in the military, the buildings were better constructed than the homes that Zhanna had grown up in.</p><p>America was full of unknowns, possibilities that made Zhanna question her place here. But following close behind Sveta, she knew that they had been through too much to turn back now. The rows of soldiers marching in formation passed the two girls and, as Sveta tucked Zhanna behind her, out of habit, she caught the all too familiar whistles, glares and whispered questions among ranks.</p><p>Sveta's shoulders were stiff, she noticed. The whispers and glares tore into her like sharp thorns. She wasn't used to being looked at with a mix of disgust, anger, and fear by her fellow soldiers; Zhanna knew her partner was accustomed to a certain level of respect, even in the army. The men of this Airborne unit looked at the two Russians like they were scum on their shoes, their glares burning into the back of their pilotka-donned heads. Zhanna knew what that felt like.</p><p>Sveta would get used to it. And Zhanna would need to grow accustomed to it again, she thought as someone snickered at her as she passed. Her rifle was taller than she was, Zhanna knew, and she must have been a sight to behold.</p><p>She hadn't been mocked publicly in a long time; the respect of being a sniper for the Motherland outweighed the blood that ran in her veins. Here, in whatever the hell this place was called, Zhanna couldn't even remember and her throat was too dry to ask, it seemed that her mark of respect was now the thing that would bring her contempt.</p><p>She didn't know where they were going and couldn't form the words in English so she stayed silent. All her practice in Britain seemed to have been lost to the strong Atlantic winds. They had certainly been lost in their ride from the train station, and if not then, most definitely in the jeep. Sveta had been nodding as the man had rambled. She was always better at that kind of thing. Zhanna had tuned them out.</p><p>The trees were different here. Of course they would be but it would have been nice for something familiar. Zhanna looked up at the tall structures looming in the distance. They were tall and metal, like spires stretching into the sky. Lines hung from them, like a rope swing. Was this where they would learn to jump?</p><p>Jump wings. That's what Sveta had said they were doing here. They were here to learn how to jump out of planes so they could get home. Jumping off a tower seemed like it would be a less daunting task.</p><p>"Zhanna," Sveta hissed. Oh. Zhanna had stopped in the middle of the path.</p><p>Sweat trickled down her spine as Zhanna tightened the strap of her rifle around her shoulder and tried to keep up with Sveta and the officer, who walked as if he had somewhere very urgent to be. She skidded to a stop behind them as they paused before a shack, the first moment she had to breathe since stepping down from the jeep. The shack carried the mark of a new build and held nothing of the weather-beaten gray that she had seen at home.</p><p>Even in shacks, America had it better.</p><p>"Colonel Sink wants her first," the officer said, jerking a thumb at Zhanna.</p><p>"Oh, but Sveta-" she started, turning to her friend. Surely Sveta should have gone first. She was the more important of the two, something Zhanna had never minded acknowledging. Sveta's status was the only reason they were here. And they hadn't been separated since their arrival. Zhanna couldn't pretend that she wasn't apprehensive but Sveta gave her a nod of encouragement? Approval? Of "get your ass in that shack"?</p><p>So Zhanna gripped her rifle tighter and took the steps one at a time, her new American boots thunking against the freshly cut American wood. They had been busy, while Zhanna's comrades were dying. They had time to make desks and a network of new buildings.</p><p>"2nd Lieutenant Casmirovna," A man stood as she entered, his voice very strange. "Take a seat."</p><p>A seat. She scanned the room and found a chair before the man's desk. Zhanna wished she had paid more attention to what the jeep driver had been saying. Maybe she would have caught how she was supposed to behave. Sveta wasn't here for her to follow and, already, Zhanna felt the writhing snakes of panic in her belly.</p><p>"Colonel," Zhanna said. She knew his rank, at least. That was a start.</p><p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna." Her name sounded so strange on his tongue. She almost laughed as he continued, "I understand you have come a long way."</p><p>That was an understatement. A long way was a mildly inconveniencing trip. A long way didn't come close to how far Sveta and Zhanna had traveled.</p><p>"Sir," Zhanna dipped her head. The chair was uncomfortable and, though she had draped the rifle across her knees, it brushed against the other desks, which were also occupied. She tried not to move.</p><p>"You have been sent here from Washington with Lieutenant Samsonova, who is in a bit of a bind, being thousands of miles from home," Sink looked at Zhanna, trying to meet her eyes. "We know why she is here and we know why we need to train her."</p><p>Sveta had power even here. A flush of pride for her friend warmed Zhanna's chest. She always could smile and nod her way into victory. Sveta was going to go home. But the warmth was replaced by the grip of those snakes in her stomach, constricting her intestines. They reminded Zhanna that she wasn't a Samsanova. She didn't have the weight, or the smile.</p><p>"I see, sir," Zhanna said. She couldn't let Sveta go without her. She hadn't fulfilled her promise, to herself or to Sveta, but Zhanna wasn't a Samsanova. She was a Polyakova by blood and a Casmirovna here. Neither did her any good.</p><p>Sink flipped through a file for several painstaking seconds. Those heartbeats hurt, pounding against Zhanna's ribs. She wasn't sure what she could do. "How did two Russian snipers make it out of Russia alive?" the colonel asked curiously. Maybe it was a part of a ready-made list of questions? How much did they already know?</p><p>You never tell anyone your secrets, Mama had always said. But that had been a warning not to answer strange men who asked questions about her family heritage on the streets. Zhanna wondered if this advice was still applicable to military colonels in the American army?</p><p>"It was a blessing," Zhanna said. She could stay vague. There were some things that he didn't need to know but if she could somehow find a way to secure her place in that training... She needed to learn how to jump out of planes so she could get home. So much was reliant on Zhanna getting home. "Everyone wants to help a Samsonov."</p><p>"That explains why Lieutenant Samsonova made it out," Sink said. "But why the hell are you here?"</p><p>Zhanna asked herself that question often. Why the hell was she here?</p><p>Blessings must have been falling on her life like rain. That, or she was incredibly lucky. But she didn't feel lucky or blessed. She felt stranded. In this office, and in the country. There was only one way for her to get out and that meant talking. Even if her pride in the Motherland told her to keep quiet.</p><p>"Lieutenant Samsonova and I are friends, sir," Zhanna said slowly. The Atlantic winds had scattered her English to the wind but these were desperate times. She used all her will power to summon them back. "We have known each other for many years. We joined the army together. We became snipers together."</p><p>The butt of the rifle slid into the neighboring desk with a thud, and the man behind it jumped. Inhaling sharply, she adjusted the weapon on her lap and she saw Sink studying the rifle. It was her pride and joy. Seeing its fair share of travel, Zhanna had kept it in peak condition. It kept her grounded, taking it apart and cleaning it. A cleansing of her own mind and soul that was more therapeutic than even Sveta could understand.</p><p>"She was my spotter. We served for a month before Smolensk fell." Zhanna said. She paused, wondering if she dared speak up. She wouldn't be left behind, leaving Sveta all on her own. She didn't know what it was like outside of the world of political schemes. She didn't know people, not as well as Zhanna at least. "Sir, I know you wonder, why train me...why take me…"</p><p>She paused, studying his face. It was lined and worn, suntanned, but not angry at her for speaking up. He watched her carefully with curiosity. Zhanna didn't mind curiosity.</p><p>"Sir, I have been trained in the army. I am a sniper, a good one, sir," She added the honorific at the end, in the hopes of softening his countenance. She couldn't be parted from Sveta.</p><p>"Good, Lieutenant Casmirovna?" Sink said, the accent stumbling over her name again. It would have been difficult to keep a straight face, if not for the fact that she was at his mercy. Her promise was on the line. "You have thirty field kills, in how many days?"</p><p>"Thirty-one," Zhanna said softly. It could have been better. She could have done more in the field if she hadn't followed Sveta. If Hitler hadn't invaded the only home she knew. "I could do better, sir. I know that with training…"</p><p>"Casmirovna, thirty field kills in thirty-one days," He leaned forward, laying the file open on the desk. It had her photo, the one from England. Her file. He had been reading up on her. Zhanna flushed. He would have known her field kills. He would have known everything about her. "I don't know a man in the Airborne who could do better."</p><p>Zhanna wasn't sure that was much of a prize, they didn't exactly train snipers, but she dipped her head. "Sir, I understand my position is…" she trailed off, struggling to find the right word.</p><p>"It's a unique predicament you find yourself in," Sink said, not waiting for her. He looked her up and down. "As I understand, spotters and snipers work in pairs." Zhanna nodded. "And it would be a crying ass shame to split up the two of you."</p><p>That wasn't the only reason, Zhanna knew. She could almost see the kill count in his eyes. Zhanna had grown up knowing her position. Polish? Dangerous. Jewish? Not ideal. Sniper? Valuable. It wasn't hard to pick which one she would rather be known as. She knew that if she was useful, they couldn't get rid of her.</p><p>"I'll try you out," Sink said, standing. "I'm sure you could teach the men a few things about shooting."</p><p>Zhanna shivered at the thought. Those eyes outside, like the eyes in the marketplace when she was a child, stalking her mother as they walked through the streets. She didn't want them to look at her but to earn her keep, to stay with Sveta, Zhanna would do anything.</p><p>"Thank you, sir," Zhanna said. He dismissed her easily and she swung the rifle back over her shoulder, the sounds of her boots hard against the floor. She must not have been paying attention again because she slammed into an officer as they barged through the door.</p><p>"Jesus Christ," the man swore. Zhanna had stumbled backward on impact, her cap falling from her head. She stammered out an apology, first in Russian then in English.</p><p>"Sorry," she managed, but the man's icy glare cut through her.</p><p>"Captain Sobel, this is 2nd Lieutenant Casmirovna. Sent from Washington." Sink introduced them but Zhanna wasn't paying attention. Her cap was on the dusty floor, she realized with a pang. Stooping, she scooped it up and, standing, dusted it off. She looked up at Captain Sobel. He regarded her with something that could only be described as contempt, and Zhanna shivered.</p><p>"Sir," She said, replacing her cap atop her blonde head and adjusting the strap of her rifle. No harm, no foul.</p><p>He looked her up and down before finally saying, "One of the snipers?"</p><p>It wasn't directed at her and Zhanna took that as an invitation to leave. She saluted to Colonel Sink, the way she had her superior officers in her army, and scurried out the door.</p><p>She nearly slammed into another officer but Sveta shot out an arm, catching her.</p><p><em>"Careful,"</em> Sveta said in Russian, trying to suppress a small smile. <em>"Forget your aim. You could probably kill these men by just hitting them with your gun."</em> Zhanna glanced at the two men. <em>"Feel free to shoot them if they give you trouble."</em></p><p>Zhanna adjusted the strap on her shoulder as she studied the two men. They were both dressed in the army uniform that had been the one constant in her time in America, and it fit them well. They were tall, their shadows spreading across Zhanna's body as Sveta stepped inside the building, leaving her alone.</p><p>Again. They had always been together but since stepping foot in this camp, they had been separated longer than in the entirety of their training.</p><p>Zhanna watched them warily, keeping her distance. The one with dark hair and circles around his eyes said, "Is she always that intense?"</p><p>She. He was talking about Sveta. Something sent shivers down Zhanna's spine that wasn't the wind. No one talked about Sveta like that.</p><p>"Nix," The red-headed man, the one who's shadow Zhanna fell under, reprimanded his friend. She didn't know why they were here. He didn't offer his hand as Americans were wont to do as he introduced himself. "I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters, Easy's Executive officer. This is Lieutenant Lewis Nixon."</p><p>Zhanna nodded. Her gaze flitted across the surrounding buildings and back up to those towers, anywhere but those men. Easy Company. That's the company they would be training with. Nothing in Zhanna's life had ever been easy.</p><p>"Are you-"</p><p>"Second Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna," She said, flinching as another group of soldiers passed their glares even more apparent. Zhanna was alone now, without the strength of Sveta to draw on and that made her more of a target. One whistled, the sound ripping through her mind with ferocity. Lieutenant Winters turned to watch them go but didn't say anything. Would they all stay silent?</p><p>"Was that Easy Company?" Zhanna asked. She couldn't imagine training with the whistles and the whispers. Whether it was Easy company or not, she would have to grow accustomed to it again.</p><p>"What?" Lieutenant Winters shook his head vehemently, as though hurt the thought had crossed her mind. "No, that was Dog Company."</p><p>"Hmm," Zhanna mused. How ironic that they whistled when they were called Dog Company.</p><p>"I take it that you've met Captain Sobel," Winters said. Zhanna tore her gaze away from the towers to meet his pale blue eyes. They were the color of ice but strangely warm.</p><p>"Did I?"</p><p>"The man you ran into. Easy Company's CO," Nixon said. His eyes were different from Winters. Dark and very reminiscent of the men who lurked in the shadows of Stalingrad. The ones Mama had warned about and the ones Zhanna had learned to fear. He opened his mouth to say more but a look from his friend was enough to silence him.</p><p>"So you're a sniper, too?" Nixon said. But it wasn't a question. Zhanna glanced between the gun on her shoulder and the man, her brows furrowed.</p><p>"Yes," she said slowly. How much did this man know? Had their files made circles around the camp before their arrival?</p><p>"Must have been quite the trip for the two of you," Nixon continued. "Russia to Britain to Washington."</p><p>She wanted him to stop talking. She wanted Sveta to step out of the door and slip her arm through Zhanna's. She wanted to hide in that familiar shadow, where it was comfortable and she could watch carefully.</p><p>"I suppose," Zhanna would humor him. Maybe he would stop if she contributed very little to the conversation. If she could even call it a conversation. It felt more like a cleverly concealed interrogation.</p><p>"You must know each other well." Nixon said. "You serve together long?"</p><p>
  <em>You serve together long?</em>
</p><p>Zhanna had known Sveta long before she had been handed a gun and long before she had gotten her thirty kills. Sveta was the only reason Zhanna was alive, with her American made boots on American soil.</p><p>Serving together wasn't even half of it. Zhanna owed Sveta her life and she would never forget it.</p><p>Nixon's words were carefully curated. He was trying to do like the shadow men from home had done. Press, poke, and probe. Zhanna wasn't as high-profile as Sveta, as well-known. She was a little grey wraith that hung in her friend's shadow. Even back home people had wondered about them. Zhanna had questioned it too. How had she, little Zhanna Polyakova, allied herself to Svetlana Samsanova?</p><p>Luck. All luck. But they didn't need to know that. They didn't need to know anything about her and it was clear they knew nothing of any substance.</p><p>Sveta had said she could shoot them if they gave her trouble. It was starting to become tempting. Zhanna ran her fingers around the strap to her rifle and shifted it again. Thankfully, it never came to that. Sveta materialized by her side, that fury-look in her eyes, and Zhanna stepped behind her quickly, finding comfort in this shadow.</p><p>"Lieutenants," Her friend said. Her friend, the one that everyone listened to. The girl who had gotten them into this country and would see them out of it again, back home. By plane or parachute, Zhanna was going home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. ...faith still needs a gun...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Smile, Sveta.</p>
<p>Her mother's voice, lyrical in its kind gentleness, echoed in her mind. Do what is necessary, play the game, wear the mask. So instead of letting her irritation and anxiety and anger paint an unpleasant expression on her face, Sveta stood with her head high. She couldn't smile, not now. But she could keep from glaring. That little lie came all too easily.</p>
<p>They'd arrived only half an hour ago. When the jeep they'd taken from the train had rolled up to the American military base, Sveta hadn't had many words for it other than sad. The jeep driver had rambled on about their current location being new and temporary, that across the river there were better accommodations that the airborne recruits would get to use after they got their wings. She'd listened carefully, said little.</p>
<p>There had been lots of marching from the men not dying of exhaustion. Chants echoed in the barren center of this Fort Benning. They sang as Russia burned.</p>
<p>The Colonel had asked for Zhanna first. For the briefest of moments, Sveta had felt herself starting to get angry. Not at Zhanna, never at Zhanna. But she'd not come halfway around the world, trekked through Russia to North Africa, laid low in Tangier, been smuggled to England and then to America only to be treated as second.</p>
<p>The usual twisting frustration from those thoughts knotted her chest. She was only first because of her name. Samsonovs always went first. But she hated what the name stood for. Sveta could see the hypocrisy in her own thoughts. She hated it.</p>
<p>With Zhanna gone, she'd been left to fight off the stares. Standing outside the small wooden structure now holding the colonel and Zhanna, she was alone. The stares came from curiosity, surprise no doubt at seeing a woman holding a rifle and wearing a side-cap. But then some had turned hostile.</p>
<p>They'd seen the Soviet symbol. It sat front and center on her brown woolen pilotka. Red star, golden hammer and sickle, it seemed to be everything these Americans feared. Well, perhaps not everything. The Nazi swastika probably made them angrier. Hopefully.</p>
<p>At first, she'd just been with Sergeant Evans. He'd not said much now that they'd reached their destination. His tight stance and reluctance to look at her made Sveta sure he was one of the majority who saw her and saw the enemy.</p>
<p>Smile, Sveta.</p>
<p>Then he'd been called away. Left to her own devices, Sveta became less careful about maintaining her image. The men had continued to drag their feet. She noticed a few of them appeared exhausted in a way she hadn't expected even from training. Those men stayed away from her. She guessed some of them didn't even notice her.</p>
<p>At least it meant less smiling. Sveta tried, for her mother. But even two years later, her mother's voice in her head brought pain more than anything else. Sveta still remembered the sound of the bullet, the red stain as blood had poured from her mother's temple onto the bed. They'd thrown the whole mattress away. Her father had said she'd been weak.</p>
<p>Sveta disagreed. She knew the truth. Her mother had been forced to smile one too many times.</p>
<p>Footsteps pulled her out of the dark thoughts. Turning to the right, she found two men, both tall, moving her way. They wore a nicer uniform, not the basic fatigues, both with the rank of Lieutenant on their collars. One, the taller of the two, had red hair in contrast to the dark of the man to his left.</p>
<p>Smile, Sveta. Smile.</p>
<p>She couldn't. Still, she forced herself to at least look neutral, hoping it would placate them and her own rushing thoughts. They stopped in front of her. The red-haired one had the decency to just look her in the face. But his comrade, his gaze swept all over her, no doubt taking in everything from her dark pants and American dress shirt to the pilotka on her head and the rifle, her precious Mosin–Nagant, at her side. She sent him a pointed look.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Sveta Samsonova?"</p>
<p>"Svetlana," she corrected, tone harsh. She broke eye contact with the overly inquisitive one and turned to the one who had spoken. Then she tried to relax. "You are?"</p>
<p>He sent her a small smile. "I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters." He extended his hand.</p>
<p>Sveta stared at it. Americans. She'd become somewhat accustomed to their brash handshaking ways. He should've waited for her to extend the offer. With a tiny sigh, she offered her own hand.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Lewis Nixon," the other said. He offered her a hand as well.</p>
<p>Dick nodded to her as she dropped his hand. He seemed to pause, maybe noticing her hesitance in the handshake. "I'm Easy Company's Executive Officer. Nixon's on staff. It's a pleasure to have you and your friend with us."</p>
<p>A pleasure. Sveta looked at them. She doubted it was a pleasure. It certainly hadn't been a pleasure for any other Army man she'd come across. They'd all looked at her with guarded hostility, or perhaps even worse, contempt.</p>
<p>Samsonov's daughter. Stalin's friend. Child of the revolution. Product of the Bolsheviks. Soviet spy. No doubt those were the names running through their minds. Definitely Nixon's at least. Where Winters seemed pleasant enough, Nixon knew something at least. She could tell. The way his mouth faded back into a straight line soon after every smile, how his eyes tracked her movements whenever she shifted her weight on her rifle, all tells.</p>
<p>"We are glad to partner with the Allies," she finally decided on. It sounded hollow to her ears, but she hoped it would convince them she meant no harm. It wasn't that she wasn't glad to partner with them;These paratroopers were perhaps her only way back home. "Hopefully we can bring some guidance to your men."</p>
<p>Nixon shifted where he stood. "Have you seen the good Colonel yet?"</p>
<p>"No," she said. It took all her effort not to sound angry. "He requested my comrade's presence first."</p>
<p>"Do you know why?" Nixon prodded.</p>
<p>She inspected him. His interest in her and Zhanna had her on edge. It was true that Zhanna didn't face the same dangers here in America as she had in Russia, or even in Africa. But she had a right to her privacy. And Sveta would maintain that. "I'm her spotter."</p>
<p>"She's the sniper, then?" he asked again.</p>
<p>Sveta's jaw clenched. "We are both snipers, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>"Of course," Winters added.</p>
<p>Smile, Sveta, smile. It wouldn't do to punch one of the men she'd be working with. Not outside of a training bout, at least. She owed it to the Motherland and to Zhanna to play nice. She'd done it for the last decade. She could keep it up for another few hours.</p>
<p>"You two are officers, then, in E Company?" She decided making small talk would be best. If she guided the conversation, maybe they'd stay away from sensitive topics. "This is the company we will be placed in?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Nixon said. "Colonel Sink's head of the 506th and he wants you with us. He thinks Captain Sobel can make use of your talents."</p>
<p>She didn't miss the slight frown that spread even to his eyes, or the twitch of his lips into almost a smirk moments after. Beside him, Winters' jaw clenched. So they didn't like this Captain. "He is good Commander?"</p>
<p>"He knows how to keep us in shape," said Winters. "You can expect quite a bit of physical training when we get the chance."</p>
<p>Nixon snorted. "Yeah. Physical training. The understatement of the century, Dick."</p>
<p>At that moment, Sveta saw Nixon go from curious and nosy to relaxed. His body loosened, and he reached for a silver flask. The change was remarkable really. Clearly the two officers were good friends.</p>
<p>"Sobel's a jackass," Nixon explained. Turning back to Sveta, he gestured towards the door to Sink's. "Colonel Sink's not a bad guy, though."</p>
<p>"Nix," Winters warned. But he didn't contradict him.</p>
<p>Sveta cracked a smirk. "Oh, I think he's said enough, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>Nixon just shrugged. Another drink, and then he'd turned back to her from where he'd been trying to catch a glimpse through a window. "Where in Russia are you from, Lieutenant?"</p>
<p>"Stalingrad."</p>
<p>As Nixon went to say more, he and Winters looked right, back towards the rest of the base. Sveta followed their gazes. A man, tall with slick dark hair and an expression of frustration, stalked towards them. Based on the way both Winters and Nixon straightened themselves and clammed up, she guessed who it was. Their salutes when he approached solidified her belief.</p>
<p>"Lieutenants," the man muttered. As he moved through them, he spared Sveta a long, hard look. But he said nothing, instead just bursting through the door at top speed. Almost immediately, he stammered back. "Jesus Christ!"</p>
<p>But Sveta heard Zhanna's quick, frightened apology. All hope of smiling left her. She set her jaw, clenching the barrel of her rifle tighter. Sveta prepared to leave the two lieutenants behind and moved to follow. As she did so, Zhanna barreled out the door. She almost ran straight into Nixon. Quick as she could, Sveta stepped in the way and steadied her.</p>
<p>"<em>Careful</em>," she said in Russian, trying to suppress a small smile. "<em>Forget your aim. You could probably kill these men by just hitting them with your gun.</em>" Then she looked at Nixon and Winters. She attempted a joke. "<em>Feel free to shoot them if they give you trouble.</em>"</p>
<p>But she didn't have time to hear what Zhanna had to say to that. At that moment, she heard her name called. To her irritation, whoever it was had the gall to call her Sveta. They would find out soon enough that only one person had that privilege. Only one, now.</p>
<p>Two steps up, and then she stepped inside the door. A few feet beyond where it opened, a desk sat facing her. A young man worked at a typewriter, the click of keys interrupted occasionally by a ding and slide of the machine. At her entrance, he stopped briefly. His gaze went immediately from her rifle to the Soviet symbol on her hat. Only when she moved to pass him did he look her in the eyes. Was that fear? Probably.</p>
<p>Sveta knew what fear looked like. Her confident footfalls echoed off the wood walls. Passing a desk on her right, she found herself looking at an older man with greying dark hair sitting behind a desk. To the left, the man who had run into Zhanna spoke to him. But when Sveta moved to the desk, he stopped talking.</p>
<p>"First Lieutenant Sveta Samsonova-"</p>
<p>Sveta wasted no time. "Svetlana," she corrected. This, her name, that was one thing that Sveta would never compromise on. Keeping her tone as even as possible, she explained. "I should be addressed as Svetlana or Samsonova by anyone other than Lieutenant Casmirovna."</p>
<p>He paused. But nodding, the man stood and extended a hand. "Of course. I've got to admit, getting used to your names is gonna take some time, Lieutenant. But I'll be damned if I ain't gonna try. I'm Colonel Robert Sink, commander of the 506th."</p>
<p>She looked at the hand he offered. With an internal sigh, she accepted the gesture. Her name she wouldn't compromise on, but she could placate their greetings. "Thank you, Colonel, for your hospitality."</p>
<p>"This here's Captain Herbert Sobel, Easy's commander. He'll be overseeing your training and the training of Lieutenant Casmirovna."</p>
<p>Her gaze fell on Sobel. He stood about a half-foot taller, eyes taking in every inch of her where she stood. Unlike Nixon, who at least had the decency to stop the mental cataloging when she caught him, Sobel acknowledged her presence and continued.</p>
<p>"Now, Lieutenant, we're gonna need to ask you a few questions."</p>
<p>At the Colonel's comment, Sveta turned back to him. She gave a curt nod. She'd expected this. It had happened every time she'd reported to a new officer. Always an interrogation.</p>
<p>"Says here that you and your companion left Russia in August of 1941. This true?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>Sink nodded, flipping another page in the dossier before him. Sveta could've laughed at how thick it was compared to the one beside it, no doubt Zhanna's. Such secrecy was good for her, of course. It kept her safe. But Sveta would've killed to be a no-one. Or at least, to be a no-one with the skills that Zhanna had.</p>
<p>"Before that you two spent some time defending a city called... Smolensk?" The Colonel had to try the Russian city twice, before finally getting it recognizable. "Your companion's numbers are nigh unbelievable. You work with her?"</p>
<p>"Yes. I'm her spotter, and sometimes we switch," Sveta told him.</p>
<p>"Why'd you join the Red Army?" Sink finally asked. Not looking at her, he read through her file instead. "Your father is a powerful man. You're well educated, well off. Goddamn untouchable, if I had to guess." He looked up at her.</p>
<p>Sveta shivered. No, she wasn't untouchable. And based on the way Sobel and Sink both looked closer at her face, she wondered if the latter regretted his words. The white scar from the bottom of her cheek down below the corner of her mouth on her chin spoke to how false that claim was. She'd thought she was untouchable once too. But that belief had shattered with her trust in her father.</p>
<p>"I joined the Red Army to serve my country, sir," she lied.</p>
<p>Though, only half a lie. She'd joined the snipers to get as far away from her father as she could. She'd wanted to get as far from Stalingrad and the dinners and meetings and social calls as possible. She wanted to avoid Moscow. So she enlisted because what better way to atone for the sins of her father than to defend the Motherland the Samsonovs so fiercely betrayed. As much as her father would disagree, Sveta knew they had. The Great Purge had been as big a betrayal as possible to the people of Russia.</p>
<p>Sink inspected her. So with as much poise as she could muster, Sveta turned off the soldier and turned on the politician. She smiled, relaxing her shoulders and raising her chin a bit. With a few blinks of her eyes, she turned to Sobel. Then she turned back.</p>
<p>"Is that not why you're here as well, sir? To serve your country? As a good and loyal Russian, I must serve the Motherland however my people see fit."</p>
<p>Sink nodded. "Indeed it is, Lieutenant." He closed her folder and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "And that's what you are, then?"</p>
<p>She paused, realizing what he meant. For a moment, she hesitated. Was she? Was she good and loyal, was she everything the Motherland wanted? Sveta's smile dropped ever so slightly. In a split second, she forced it back. "Sir, I'm loyal to my people. And now, my people are Allied to yours. I brought the information my father wanted to send. And now I must get home."</p>
<p>"You're prepared to serve under American command to do that?"</p>
<p>She bit her cheek again. What did he think she'd been doing for the past four months? She'd endured months of travel between Stalingrad and Tangier, trips across the Baltic, and then the Mediterranean. And she'd know at the end, she'd have to serve the British and the Americans. Of course she was prepared.</p>
<p>With a practiced, winning smile, she ducked her head. "I will serve my country by serving yours."</p>
<p>Sink rose from his chair. He gave her a nod. No smile, though, she noticed. He didn't have to smile. For a moment, anger boiled over. She alone wore a mask. She was a puppet, a tool used by Stalin and Beria and her father. Even here, thousands of miles away across an ocean, she had to maintain their image. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Loyalty meant everything. Loyalty meant life over death.</p>
<p>"Captain Sobel will oversee your training. I expect you to follow his orders to the letter, Lieutenant." Sink gestured to him.</p>
<p>She turned to Sobel. He nodded to her, and she nodded back. The muscles in her jaw clenched the longer he looked her over. Like some sort of thinly veiled interrogation, it seemed.</p>
<p>"I expect you to maintain the same level of physical fitness as any of the men in my company, Lieutenant, is that understood? No allowances will be made for you or that friend of yours." His final words dripped with anger. Sobel bore a grudge, apparently.</p>
<p>Sveta stuffed down her attitude, but she refused to let the insult slide. With poise and tact, she smiled. This smile, she enjoyed. "I assure you Captain, Lieutenant Casmirovna and I will show you what it means to be a good soldier," she replied. Then she turned back to Sink. "Colonel." Sveta saluted.</p>
<p>He returned it. Looking out the window, he caught sight of someone and nodded. "I need to speak to Captain Sobel further. Looks like Lieutenant Winters is outside. He knows where you two'll be bunking."</p>
<p>"Sir."</p>
<p>She nodded to him and then to Sobel. Confident in his dismissal, Sveta turned on her heels and marched out the door. The two other men in the room paused in their typing as she passed. It took all her patience not to roll her eyes. She hoped Winters would show them somewhere close by; all she wanted to do was let her hair down and rest.</p>
<p>When she opened the door, she found Zhanna's mouth drawn, brows a bit furrowed. Her eyes darted away from the men with her. She looked everywhere but the source of her discomfort. Sveta spun on them. She didn't need to see Zhanna playing with her rifle to know they'd bothered her. "Lieutenants."</p>
<p>Nixon straightened up a bit. The way his lips twitched into a smile, she knew it was practiced. Too perfect, too well executed, but lacking sincerity of a true smile. His eyes gave that away. He was dangerous. At that moment, Sveta knew she'd have to keep an eye on him. Clearly he liked alcohol. Maybe she'd have to get him drunk, see what she could figure out. She needed to know what he knew about her, and about Zhanna.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Winters, the Colonel said you know where we'll be staying." Though she spoke to Winters, Sveta refused to look away from Nixon for a few moments. She had to let him know that she knew he was playing an angle. After a few beats of glaring at him, she turned to the other one. "He requests that you take us there immediately."</p>
<p>He'd never said immediately. But Sveta made that decision for them. They needed to talk. Sveta needed to see what Sink had tried to get from Zhanna, and what game Nixon had been playing. She would find out, and she would do it with a smile.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. ...through different eyes...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>"Why are there goddamn Russian broads?"</p><p>"Where are they staying?"</p><p>"Why are they here?"</p><p>The men of Easy Company kept a steady stream of whispers through their first week of training. Sure, they didn't whistle like Dog or Fox companies, both Zhanna had learned to avoid but they were still vocal at their confusion and most of all, displeasure.</p><p>They separated the pair. Again. Zhanna would have thought being welcomed into the program meant that she would be allowed to stay with her friend but it seemed friendships didn't mean anything to Sobel.</p><p>He had taken it upon himself, prior to morning muster on their first week of training, to find Zhanna and let her know exactly what she would be expected to do. She had to keep up with the men. She had to train just as hard as the other men. He had given Sveta a similar speech it seemed, but the entire regiment regarded Zhanna with apprehension.</p><p>"Jesus, she's tiny," A private had whispered as Zhanna passed to take her place in formation. They didn't seem to believe that she had made it through the sniper program. She had, though. A flush of pride warmed her chest, as she rested the rifle against her shoulder, the weight comfortable and familiar. She had worked hard to be a sniper and she would work harder to earn those little wings that would allow her flight home.</p><p>Zhanna was used to needing to establish herself. She had been forced to, holding herself at a higher standard in training and now, she would bring that competition and drive here.</p><p>"How are your chances, you think? The blonde or the brunette?" A Corporal behind Zhanna snickered as she straightened her spine. Walk tall, stand proud. She had earned this rifle, this place and now, because of her skills in the field, she had the chance to earn her place in Easy Company.</p><p>"The brunette looks like she could give Sobel a run for his money," Someone whispered. Zhanna's blood ran cold. No one talked about Sveta like that. These men didn't know who she was. "But the blonde is cute, for a Ruski."</p><p>"Pole," Zhanna silently corrected. Tata had always corrected people under his breath. Maybe that's why they had been forced to run, because he carried too much pride for his old homeland. She glanced over at Sveta, who shook her head. She didn't need to get into a fight with Americans after only 24 hours in Fort Benning.</p><p>She had finally remembered the name of the camp. Benning. She would remember it for more than its name.</p><p>Their platoon leaders let out a guttural jumble of words that escaped Zhanna but, she straightened, following the other men around her by standing at attention. Stiff as a board and emotionless.</p><p>She drew herself to her fullest height as Captain Sobel stalked among the ranks, inspecting their uniforms and every pore on their faces for any regulation-breaking grounds.</p><p>His eyes fell heavy on Zhanna and it was obvious he had found his victim.</p><p>"Tell me, Lieutenant Casmirovna." He said the words sharply, in the most American way he could, as if willing the Russian out of her with only the tone of his voice. "Is that hat regulation?"</p><p>The hat. It wasn't just a hat. Marked with the Soviet red star, Zhanna had worn it with pride for many months. She had earned it, through blood, tears, and the calluses on her now sweating hands.</p><p>"No, sir," she said, softly. In English. It wasn't regulation and her position was already precarious. Yes, her kills were impressive but they didn't need her. Zhanna had never burned with anger. Slowly, she reached up and folded the pilotka. Handing it over to Sobel felt like something had been ripped out of her heart. She didn't have a temper to lose but there was something chilling in her chest at the look of triumph on Sobel's face.</p><p>The pilotka on her head and the rifle on her back were the only things she had left of Russia, of home. And with the only piece of Russian craftsmanship in her new CO's hand, Zhanna was slowly being stripped of everything that tied her to home. Her shoes were American. Her uniform, a drab green that had been hastily hemmed to fit her small stature, American. All that was left was her rifle and it seemed Sobel would have that too.</p><p>"That rifle isn't American Army issue, Casmirovna." Again, he spat her name out like it was an insult. Her patronymic, her father's name, raked through the mud again by a man who had never met him. The pride that Tata had burned with was the same pride that ran in Zhanna's veins. She wouldn't let him take this from her.</p><p>Her knuckles turned white around the rifle strap and Zhanna looked up at Sobel cooly. She readied her words, preparing to protest but Sveta had taken matters into her own hands.</p><p>"Sir, I would be more than happy to speak to Colonel Sink about allowing us to keep the rifles, seeing as your men in Washington wish us to help you as snipers. Sir." Sveta didn't need to step forward to be heard. She never did.</p><p>Every "sir" she spoke contained a hidden message that only Zhanna recognized.</p><p>
  <em>"Sir, you don't have authority over me"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Sir, Zhanna is with me."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Sir, if you take those rifles, you can kiss your Russian diplomacy goodbye."</em>
</p><p>Sveta had told Zhanna the night before, curled up in their shared bunk in the farthest reaches of Fort Benning that they were in this together. Like they always were.</p><p>Sobel frowned, a storm of emotions crossing his face before he stepped back, cap in hand, shouting. "Easy Company, welcome to your first day of fall week."</p><p>Zhanna stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. Sveta had removed her own pilotka, tucking it into the waistband. They still had their rifles and they still had each other. United, even in separate platoons.</p><p>Sobel had left, his prize clutched in a fist and a look of determination on his face. Zhanna was sure he would be going to Sink's office, to try and rip those rifles from their hands. Let him try. As the platoons were dismissed, she hung back, Sveta's hand brushing her arm. They leaned closer.</p><p><em>"Should I shoot him?"</em> Zhanna asked, eager to use her Russian.</p><p><em>"Eh, don't waste your bullets."</em> Sveta glanced at Sobel's retreating back. Zhanna opened her mouth to say it was no trouble and she would enjoy killing him with the rifle he wanted to take from her but she was rudely interrupted by a soldier. The last name on his jacket proclaimed him as Talbert.</p><p>"Hey! You're in America, speak English!"</p><p>Zhanna glanced at Sveta, who's eyes twinkled in approval and amusement. The men were quiet, waiting to see how they'd react. Loud enough for Talbert to hear, Zhanna said. "Otlez' gnida!"</p><p>Sveta's sharp laugh cut through the silence that followed. It was funny, in that moment, the two of them linking arms as if they hadn't a care in the world. But Zhanna regretted it when training started.</p><p>The men were quick to turn on her, not knowing what had been said or not caring to find out. Zhanna and Sveta were separated, the platoons working amongst themselves as they were taught how to pack and fold their parachutes.</p><p>It wasn't hard work, reminding Zhanna of the laundry her mother had taken in. Big feather ticks used to ward off the Russian winters that needed a good wash once a year. The parachutes weren't quite as heavy but just as cumbersome to work with. She was smaller than all the men of her platoon and the tension hardware used to hold the canopy taut was hard to work with. Zhanna managed, out of sheer determination, and a flush of pride warmed her when the instructor inspected her work and gave her a nod of approval.</p><p>"I heard the Brits use their girls to pack the parachutes," Someone whispered from behind her. Zhanna had begun working on her second chute, while some soldiers still struggled with their first. "They must have shown little Ruski here how it's done."</p><p>"I could show you, if you'd like," Zhanna offered sweetly. Confusion warped the paratrooper's face. He didn't have a chance to string two words together before Sergeant Lipton slipped down the rows of soldiers, calling for silence.</p><p>Her offer went unused and became a sort of joke. As the week progressed and they moved on from calling her "Ruski" to an assortment of height related jokes and jabs.</p><p>Zhanna, dwarfed in the gear that was standard issued and "army regulation," had to loop the loose webbing and bundle up the excess in order to move freely. This led to "shortstop" and someone thanking the army for bringing them a footstool to step up into the planes with.</p><p>Her proficiency in packing the parachutes didn't help her in the long run. Zhanna had known that they would be jumping off the towers, eventually. But first they had to fall onto piles of sawdust through mock doors, landing in such a way that protected their limbs from being broken. A real danger, the instructor warned Zhanna.</p><p>She was determined though, and wasn't about to be conquered by a fake airplane nor the towers that followed. Handling parachutes from suspended harnesses was enjoyable for her, like a kid on a swing, her feet dangling in the air. Nothing holding her up but her wits and a steel cable. Zhanna wasn't afraid of the height but she didn't trust the men she was surrounded by.</p><p>The platoon's jokes didn't sting but their inability to work together did. She didn't want to be here anymore than they wanted her. She wanted to get those wings pinned to her American uniform and go home to the Motherland where the real fight was.</p><p>The instructors weren't even on her side. Zhanna wasn't sure why she was surprised, really. She had recognized the look in their eyes.</p><p>"Stupid," Zhanna muttered, her feet dragging in the dust as Sveta walked her back from the hanger, where the men had left her hanging in a suspended harness. If her partner hadn't come to find her, she would have been there swinging still. Zhanna didn't mind the suspension harness but she was hungry.</p><p>Tired, famished, and about two minutes away from bursting into tears, Zhanna followed Sveta to the mess to scrounge up some food. They had missed the start of supper but she was hoping that Sveta could smile some rolls into their pockets so they could eat in their barracks in peace. Away from everyone and their angry glares and jokes.</p><p>But Sveta slipped her arm through Zhanna's and pulled her through the food line, piling the meager Army offerings onto her tray and sitting her down at a table in the corner, out of sight of the rest of the mess hall but where they could watch the men.</p><p>"Who left you there?" Sveta asked, stabbing her fork into the potatoes as if they were the ones who had abandoned Zhanna to swing like a puppet for a good thirty minutes.</p><p>"I don't remember their names," Zhanna said, moving her food around her plate. "And it doesn't matter, remember?"</p><p>It didn't matter what they did here, who liked them and who didn't, they had to get home. Zhanna and Sveta would both make it home even if Zhanna had to pack every parachute in Fort. Benning herself.</p><p>"We play nice<em>,</em>" She reminded her friend. "They don't have to like us or even trust us."</p><p>It hurt though. It always did. Pole, Jew, Russian. It didn't matter. It still hurt. Not that it should have mattered. Her duty was to Russia, to Sveta, and to her family. Who cared what a few soldiers in America thought of them anyway?</p><p>Nixon and Winters, near inseparable, dipped their heads as they passed. Winters looked as if he would have asked to sit down but Sveta's stony expression told him his question wouldn't be answered favorably, so he settled for just greeting them.</p><p>"Lieutenants," he said, giving them a tight-lipped smile. He was Zhanna's platoon leader and undoubtedly knew of the jokes being made about her. If they were being told within his earshot, Winters didn't say anything. His dark-haired companion nodded in passing but his eyes watched the two Russians long after he had sat down.</p><p><em>"Has he been watching you too?"</em> Sveta asked, lowering her voice as they slipped into Russian.</p><p><em>"I guess so,"</em> Zhanna murmured, passing a roll between her palms. <em>"He was trying to figure out who I was yesterday.</em>" She paused, contemplating how to put her thoughts into words. She could feel the weight of Nixon's dark eyes on her back. Even from across the mess hall, he was trying to figure them out. <em>"He reminds me of the officers."</em></p><p>Sveta's eyes flicked back over Zhanna's shoulder at the mention. The officers. Not Sobel or Sink or Nixon. The NKVD officers. The name of the organization never crossed Zhana's lips but even thinking it sent a shiver down her spine. The intensity in his eyes and how he always seemed to be around every corner.</p><p>They had been in Fort Benning for 24 hours now and she had seen him more than any other officer. It made sense for him to monitor Sveta, the daughter of a powerful man in Stalin's inner circle. But Zhanna wasn't anyone. And maybe that's why.</p><p><em>"Has he been bothering you?"</em> Zhanna asked. Sveta didn't answer, too occupied by watching Nixon. <em>"Sveta!"</em></p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p><em>"Is he bothering you?"</em> She repeated. Zhanna was tired but she wasn't against standing up and confronting the lieutenant. She would enjoy it, actually.</p><p><em>"No,"</em> Sveta said. <em>"Don't worry about it."</em></p><p>But Zhanna was worried about it. Their positions were precarious, their popularity nonexistent. Anything could topple the house of cards that was their deal with the Airborne. "<em>Okay</em>," She said, knowing not to press Sveta.</p><p>Switching back to English, she glanced around at the watching eyes of Nixon and said. "If they try to take my rifle, I'm finding another way home."</p><p>It was all she had and Sveta knew that.</p><p>"If they try to take your rifle, we are both finding another way home." They were in this together, whether or not their route home was by air, land, or sea was inconsequential. Zhanna smiled, though the snakes of uncertainty writhed in her stomach. Another debt to pay, another string of grace tying her to Sveta. By the time they made it home, she wasn't sure what she could hope to offer to repay it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The First Report</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lewis Nixon | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>FOR: Lt. Col. Robert Sink, Commander, 506th PIR</em>
</p><p>
  <em>SUBJECT: Summary Notes on Activities of Soviet Liaison 1st Lt. Svetlana Samonova and colleague 2nd Lt. Zhanna Casmirovna</em>
</p><p>
  <em>DATE: December 13, 1942</em>
</p><p>Nixon stopped typing. Leaning back in his chair, he yawned and stretched his arms. The dress shirt he wore made the action difficult, so he pushed out from behind the desk and moved around inside. He wanted a drink, anyways.</p><p>It'd been about a week since the Soviet girls had shown up. Sink had pulled him aside the week before. With Major Strayer, they'd sat him down and explained the situation. Or at least what they knew of the situation. Given his interest in being transferred to Intelligence, they'd give him the job of keeping an eye on Svetlana, and in turn, her sniper friend Zhanna.</p><p>Zhanna was the real question. Not that Svetlana wasn't intriguing; she held the obvious power of the two. Politically, academically, physically, Svetlana was the hurricane. But Zhanna… what was Zhanna?</p><p>A damn good shot, for one. Nixon had looked at her file. Thirty-one kills in thirty days. Almost unbelievable really. Maybe the Soviets had faked her records. He'd considered it. He knew Sink and Strayer certainly had. Sitting back down, he set up the typewriter. Nixon had almost believed that, too. Until he'd watched her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>PART ONE: Initial Observations of 2nd. Lt. Zhanna Casmirovna</em>
</p><p>
  <em>While small stature was initially a cause for concern, Casmirovna has kept up with the men in Easy Company without issue. Any concern for her physical fitness seems to be a moot point. She carries herself as a soldier should. There is no doubt in my mind that she is well trained.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Casmirovna's integration into Easy Company has been-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nixon paused his typing. The silence hung in the air for a moment. In the office he'd commandeered for the evening, he took a small drink of whiskey. The sun had gone down hours ago. He glanced at his watch. 2130 hours.</p><p>Looking back at the paper he tried to focus. What was he supposed to say? The integration had gone terribly. The men made Zhanna's life hell. And unlike Svetlana, who seemed to exist in a constant state of subtle defiance, Zhanna hadn't been belligerent. She'd been quiet, reserved. In fact, he'd have doubted her ability to fight if he hadn't seen her ready to throw hands with Malarkey over her rifle.</p><p>In that instant, Zhanna had changed. The girl who refused to make eye contact and struggled with English switched to cold aggression. The men had laughed. But they'd also walked away. If Nixon was honest with himself, it was that moment that solidified his belief that she was every bit as capable as the intelligence reports said.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Casmirovna's integration into Easy Company has been slow. The men are reluctant to accept a woman Soviet, as was expected. Hesitance to show her trust has somewhat hindered the efficiency of Casmirovna, and of the platoon. Also as expected, Casmirovna is hesitant to converse in anything but Russian. Knowing this, though, I don't think her use of Russian with Samsonova is to hide an ulterior motive.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He let the page sit untouched for another moment. He had more on his mind, one thing in particular that he couldn't quite explain. Her name, it felt off. Something wasn't right. Based purely on the names in Svetlana's file, the ending didn't fit the pattern he'd been finding.</p><p>But he only had speculation. Definitely nothing worth putting in his first report to Sink. If he had something concrete, and if it posed a threat, then he'd alert the Colonel.</p><p>A threat. The next part of the report would have to be more forthright.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>PART TWO: Initial Observations of 1st Lt. Svetlana Samsonova</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As previously noted in her file, Samsonova is considered a potential intelligence threat for the US Army. Based on the information given to us from the British Special Operations Executive, she has been positively identified as the daughter of NKVD leadership staff member Alexander Samsonov. Samsonov previously worked against the Allies' aims during the war and helped draw up the Treaty of Non-Aggression with Germany. He is a known friend of Stalin and Beria. Extremely dangerous. As such, Samsonova is still considered a potential threat despite the Soviet declaration of war against the Germans, and continued efforts therein.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My initial impression of Samsonova did not surprise me. She is-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nixon paused again. Putting Svetlana into words would be difficult. She'd not done anything explicitly disrespectful or against orders. But that didn't mean he hadn't seen her working Sobel whenever she had a cause to. He smirked. He had to admit, it was kind of entertaining. She clearly knew she held power, even if that power came from the fact that the US Army had expressed the need to keep her on good terms. They couldn't risk angering the Soviet secret police by disrespecting the daughter of one of its key members.</p><p>US-Soviet relations remained tense. They were a threat; actively, outspokenly communist and as such, untrustworthy. Even if Britain had a treaty with them, and thus they were allied with the United States, Nixon was quite sure both sides knew it couldn't last forever.</p><p>Which side of the equation Svetlana Samsonova fell on, he still didn't know. He still couldn't figure out why she'd joined the snipers. Something didn't feel right there. She had everything she could've wanted that Russia had to offer right at her fingertips in Stalingrad. But instead she'd gotten as far away from the political power as possible. Why?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My initial impression of Samsonova did not surprise me. She is accustomed to the politics at play with her presence. I am positive she is aware of her value to the Army, or at least the value of her family name. That being said, I have seen no reason to believe she is an active spy or other intelligence threat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Samsonova's integration with Easy Company is also going as expected. The men are distrustful of her, perhaps even more so than Casmirovna. Where Casmirovna is having difficulty maintaining the respect of the men, it's clear that they recognize Samsonova as the primary threat.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>That word again. Threat. Was she a threat? Nixon sat back and sighed. She was, and she wasn't. The way she carried herself put a target on her back, either way though. Cobb was the most publicly outspoken against her. But others joined, including Alley and More. The three of them took an aggressive stance against her presence.</p><p>Her reactions worried him. The one reason he still considered her a potentially significant intelligence threat was the way she could change on a dime. One minute, smiling and calm. The next, looking at the men with a glare so intense some of them physically stepped back. He'd caught Luz joking that she was just like Sobel. Nixon disagreed there. She had too much control to be compared to Sobel.</p><p>She managed to manipulate Sobel in her favor. He'd known it of course, when on day one she'd spoken out during formation and, despite remaining calm, she had reminded him of her political power with feigned innocence and gentle words. Nixon had been impressed, and he'd seen the way the enlisted looked at her change then and there. It was at that moment their teasing and heckling became less about fun and more about spite.</p><p>The men threw everything they could at her. The rumor that she'd slept her way out of Europe had started circling by day two. By the third day, the men of First became convinced that she was a political prisoner. Nixon had to roll his eyes at that one. A political prisoner wouldn't be trained as a paratrooper. Everyone called her Commie. No one said it to her face.</p><p>All the while she maintained a quiet calm under the brashness of the men. But he could see through it, sometimes. Their talk infuriated her. He'd seen her right hand trembling and the way the corners of her mouth would drop just a little. Nixon knew the smiles were fake. But he had to hand it to her, she still flashed her smile around.</p><p>Even so, every once in a while, that practiced facade fell away completely. And when it dropped, it tended to drop because of Zhanna. The more he thought about Svetlana, the more he realized he needed to spend more time digging into Zhanna Casmirovna. He made a mental note.</p><p>When it dropped, the sheer level of hatred he could see in her mannerism worried him. And the fact that he couldn't tell who that hatred was aimed at, that was the threat. Was it the men for their disrespect? Was it for their treatment of her friend? Or was it towards America. He returned to the report.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Samsonova is maintaining distance from herself and the men on purpose. What she hopes to achieve by this is unknown. If she was placed here as a spy as Washington would like us to consider, it seems counterproductive. I believe her desire to get home to be genuine and her primary motivation. However the potential for her to become dangerous should not be underestimated.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>RECOMMENDATIONS: for Lt. Col. Sink's consideration</em>
</p><p>
  <em>1. Maintain observation of both 2nd Lt. Casmirovna and 1st Lt. Samsonova. I will continue my reports as needed if the Colonel requires it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>2. Recommend that 1st Lt. Winters take a more active role in the integration of Casmirovna into Easy Company.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>a. I still believe the primary threat to be Samsonova, but I believe that Samsonova is most likely to become dangerous if Casmirovna is disrespected or harmed based on their interactions. Samsonova has become most aggressive when faced with Casmirovna's hazing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>b. Samsonova may also need direct intervention to integrate her into Easy Company, but I have hopes that her confidence will turn the men in her favor, seeing her as a strong ally. Time will tell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>3. Continue the investigation into Samsonova's connection with the NKVD</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Submitted by 1st Lt. Lewis Nixon, Easy Company, 506th PIR</em>
</p><p> </p><p>To Nixon, the third point remained the most vital. Svetlana's connection to the Soviet secret police could shed light on her loyalties. The fact that she'd left her relatively easy life as a rich, politically safe young woman to become a soldier didn't sit right. Something about her claim to have left the spotlight in Stalingrad for the glory of the Motherland sounded hollow.</p><p>She'd left for a reason. Nixon knew it. There had to be an explanation. And maybe if he could get that problem sorted out, it would shed some light on her mysterious, deadly sniper friend. Zhanna fit into that somewhere. The teenager was as different from Svetlana as Svetlana was from the Americans.</p><p>He pulled the paper out of the typewriter. With a final drink of his glass of Vat 69, Nixon stood from the desk. His legs hurt from sitting for so long. He grabbed a pen from whoever's desk he'd taken over and signed and initialed the final paper.</p><p>With the papers in a manila envelope and placed in Colonel Sink's inbox, he moved to leave. Nixon flipped off the lights. He blinked in the dark. Once he'd stepped outside, he looked up at the sky. The chill of December sent shivers down his spine. He yawned. Dick would probably be asleep by the time he got back to the quarters they shared with Moose. Good for him, too. He deserved it. They all deserved it. With a final deep breath, he left the office shack and the typewriter behind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. ...no one never listens...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>17 December 1942</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>In the army, in her army, in the Red Army, Sveta had been able to get away. The gun had taken time to get used to, but with the women, they had seen her less as a marionette and more as a human. Of course, no one had really forgotten her parentage. Alexander Samsonov's shadow loomed over her wherever she went. But he'd had less direct power while she'd been hundreds of miles away than he'd wielded while she'd been in Stalingrad. But here, in this American military base on American soil in an American uniform, Stalin and Beria and Samsonov managed to shadow her even more. In fact, the mere thought ruined her birthday for her, not that she'd enjoyed birthdays much in recent years.</p><p>Her birthday in 1940 had come mere months after her mother's death. 1941 had been no better, marked with war and a desperate attempt to lie low in Morocco. And now, in 1942, the third birthday without her mother, Sveta had to deal with spies and slurs and a language barrier.</p><p>Sveta knew Nixon was watching them. If he wanted to play that game, she would oblige. She'd spent too many years putting on masks and playing pretend to have some American lieutenant bother her. Then again, Zhanna had made a connection on day one that she'd never considered.</p><p>He was just like the officers.</p><p>Not the American ones, not the British. No. The way he watched them reminded Zhanna of the blue caps, the NKVD. Zhanna knew them like Sveta knew them: lurking around every corner, waiting for the smile to drop, eager for the scent of blood or any sign of weakness. Weakness meant betrayal, and betrayal meant punishment.</p><p>Sveta knew that there were no NKVD operatives in America. Russia didn't have the money to fund operations so far from the Motherland. That was one reason they'd turned to America in the first place. But she didn't really know that.</p><p>Nixon wasn't one; he was too obviously curious about them. But she couldn't help but wonder if the Americans had their own blue caps, their own Gestapo. Did they have a version of the NKVD lurking on this military base? It would make sense. That's how society stayed together.</p><p>Whispers on her right pulled Sveta from her thoughts. She stood with the rest of First Platoon at the base of the towers. They reached high above them, 250 feet someone had said. She'd already finished her controlled flights for the day. Now she had to wait for dismissal.</p><p>The whispering continued, along with poorly stifled laughter. Luz, Muck, Perconte probably. She'd learned over the last ten days that they would whisper. Cobb, Alley, and More wouldn't even do that. Every little smirk, every little snicker reminded Sveta of how much she hated them.</p><p>She hated the way they would burst into song, speaking words she didn't understand. She hated the way their American accents would butcher Stalingrad and Smolensk. She hated the glances. She hated the way Zhanna's name poured from their lips with scorn, and hers with disgust.</p><p>Where Zhanna and her platoon had gone off to, Sveta didn't know. They'd finished the tower first that day. The best, in fact perhaps the only pleasant moments in Fort Benning, came when they got to their little shack at night. There they could speak their beautiful language in peace. There, Sveta could relax.</p><p>At night she let her mind wander. She would close her eyes and create stories in her mind, stories of traversing a land like Russia, but not Russia. She'd cross a river like the Volga, but not the Volga. Everything wonderful about her home would be there and none of the horrors. The moments between turning off the lights and dropping to sleep, those were Sveta's favorites.</p><p>"How d'you think she got that scar? Mishandle a kitchen knife?"</p><p>"Hey, Ruski, get tired of playin' soldier yet?"</p><p>Sveta stayed where she was. Heat rose to her chest. If the second voice was anything to go by, she thought it was More. But she wouldn't bite. As much as she wanted to rip into these immature men with all the fury she'd been taught, she would wait.</p><p>"Must be deaf."</p><p>Someone else laughed along with him. Sveta stayed still. She had a thought to turn to them, rebuke them, but her eyes found Nixon standing with Heyliger, her Platoon Leader. They chatted quietly. The latter's shoulders slumped a bit. His gaze moved throughout First Platoon. But beside him, Nixon's own lingered more heavily on the men harassing her than anything else.</p><p>"Maybe she's deaf from Shortstop's crying every night."</p><p>Sveta clutched onto her sleeves. Arms across her chest, she did everything in her power to maintain the facade. But after years of keeping it together, she felt it crumbling here in America. Her control had been a lie, like everything else. But Stalin be damned if she wouldn't try to take some back for herself. Forcing herself to smile, she turned to them slowly, unhurriedly. Another lie.</p><p>"I feel bad for you," she said. It didn't go unnoticed that everyone around them had stopped what they were doing. She supposed even here in America, being a Samsonov held power despite them not realizing why.</p><p>"For us?" More asked. He snickered. "Fancy that, boys. She feels bad for us."</p><p>"Of course I do," she added. "It is unfortunate that Americans can't learn simple Russian names. I'm so sorry that you face these hurdles."</p><p>The false sincerity was enough to piss them off even further if the frowns that replaced their laughter was any indication. Sveta didn't even try to suppress the genuine smile that replaced her fake one. But they hadn't finished.</p><p>"Wonder if her mom's as much of a talker as she is," Cobb shot back. Though he aimed the question at the men who had surrounded them, he looked right at her.</p><p>Sveta froze. Images flashed through her mind. Blood on white bedsheets, her father's pistol on the floor, the open hand of her mother that had held it splayed out over the edge of the bed. She remembered thinking how glassy her mother's hazel eyes looked without life. Sveta had raced into the bedroom at the bang she'd come to associate with the Korovin pistol. Instead of the warm embrace of her mother, she'd found her cold body.</p><p>Veronika Samsonova had kept her mouth closed. That's what had killed her.</p><p>Svetlana Samsonova would not make that mistake.</p><p>They must've seen her change because several of the boys who had laughed shuffled where they stood. Luz, Muck, Perconte's smiles fell. More and Cobb watched her like hawks, or vultures. She took a step forward. Some of them took a step back.</p><p>As much as she wanted to scream at them, she remained as calm, or pretended to be as calm, as she could. Nixon and Heyliger had turned towards them at the sudden change in the group, and she didn't need to give Nixon more of a show than she had to.</p><p>"You would do well to keep your mouth shut, Private. I'd hate to see what would happen if you spoke out of turn one too many times. You are lucky that the only Russian weapon I brought is my rifle. Pray that I don't use something worse."</p><p>Sveta knew fear. She'd known to fear her enemies since birth. She'd known to fear her friends since 16 April 1935. And in that moment, she knew they understood fear too. A few held her gaze. The rest glanced between themselves.</p><p>"First Platoon, listen up!"</p><p>Heyliger's shout interrupted the silence. The men turned away, falling into formation. Sveta followed Cobb with her eyes for a moment. Then she joined them, taking up the farthest spot on the right at the front. Muck stood to her left.</p><p>Her gaze found Nixon. There he was again, but this time he stood with Winters. When he was with Winters, he let his guard down. Sveta stowed that information away for later.</p><p>"First Platoon, good work today. Tomorrow's the end of Tower Week, so rest up. We'll be doing some night practice." Heyliger offered smiles to all of them. He even smiled at Sveta. "You're dismissed. Go grab some dinner."</p><p>Sveta let out a long, silent breath as the swarm of First Platoon moved towards the barracks to change. Her gear weighed heavily on her shoulders and squeezed her chest and legs. The tight braids keeping her dark hair pinned against her skull longed to be taken out. And, she was getting a headache.</p><p>Just what she needed on her birthday.</p><p>Before she realized it, Sveta stood alone by the towers. Their metal frames loomed overhead, visible even as night fell. Some of the men complained endlessly about the chilly weather. They even called it cold. Sveta had just laughed to herself. She'd been in true cold before, and this state of Georgia was not it.</p><p>"Lieutenant."</p><p>Sveta stopped staring at the towers. Winters and Nixon had walked over, the former speaking. She didn't particularly care for Lieutenant Winters. Zhanna suffered in his platoon. But then, he'd been cordial thus far. He'd engaged in none of the spiteful teasing of the enlisted.</p><p>"Lieutenants," she responded. Smile, Sveta. "What can I do for you?"</p><p>Nixon gave the tiniest huff of laughter. Her headache increased. But he didn't mock her, instead, he just shook his head and pointed at the towers. "Pretty crazy, huh. Can't wait to jump out of an airplane for real."</p><p>"It's certainly different," she agreed. Winters smiled. The sincerity in the way it spread to his eyes made her jealous.</p><p>Winters turned from her to the towers again. After a long pause, he turned back. "How's your training? I'm sorry that Lieutenant Casmirovna's had to face opposition from my platoon," he added.</p><p>Even that statement seemed genuine. His tone, the tiny frown, the way his shoulders sank ever so slightly, pointed towards sincerity. "Yes. It's a pity," she agreed. Sveta tried to mask her own anger, stifle it down. "After all, your Washington said they want us here. I'd hate for an American to do something stupid and jeopardize that."</p><p>They both straightened up ever so slightly at her statement. For a moment, she regretted it. Sveta hadn't meant that as a threat, not this time. She'd meant it. For her own sake as much as for the Americans, they needed to somehow reach an understanding. But her apology stuck in her throat. So she opted for something else, a question that had been nagging at her since she'd arrived in Fort Benning.</p><p>"Tell me, is it common for Americans to be so…" She couldn't find the word in English. "They speak how they want." Sveta had been in America for nearly four months, but she'd only really been around high-ranking military officials. Since being around these enlisted men, she'd wondered about their lack of self-censorship.</p><p>Nixon looked at her closer. "What do you mean?"</p><p>She bit her cheek, thinking. It puzzled her, amazed her really. They didn't really care what they said. She'd heard a few speaking openly about their religion, another making jokes about Captain Sobel. And of course, their insults.</p><p>"The way they're treating you and Lieutenant Casmirovna is unfair," Winters added. "They shouldn't speak the way they do to anyone, especially an officer. If it continues, I'll have to step in."</p><p>He'd step in. And do what? Sveta's confusion must've been evident because they both exchanged a glance. Stupid, letting them know she didn't understand.</p><p>"What were you expecting?" Nixon seemed confused.</p><p>Sveta shrugged. "I'm just surprised that they're permitted to speak so freely." Shaking her head, she looked in the direction the men had walked off. "In Russia…"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>She turned to Nixon. There it was. In the light of the fluorescent spotlights strung up around the base, his eyes seemed to glint. She froze. Smile, Sveta. Smile. Stupid, letting her guard down! She shook her head. "Stalin would never permit it. It is poor form, a display of vulgarity."</p><p>"Stalin can't be everywhere in Russia," Nixon joked.</p><p>He couldn't be everywhere, no. But he was. He was everywhere, listening, making sure loyalty to the Motherland came before all else. The NKVD were his arms, and his hands. The Red Army his feet. Beria, his eyes. But they were all the same. Anger, fear, disgust filled her entire being. "Stalin is Russia," she snapped.</p><p>At her words, they all paused. Terror seized her. For a moment, her smile dropped. What had she said? All her years of practice, all the moments spent before the mirror practicing her smiles and her frowns and her kisses and waves, they'd failed her in this unfamiliar country.</p><p>Her mother had died because she'd kept her mouth shut. Svetlana would die because she couldn't do the same.</p><p>"I need to change," she said, a few pounding heartbeats later. "Excuse me."</p><p>Sveta left them behind, standing there beneath the tower in the dark. By the time she reached their barracks, Zhanna wasn't there. Fear gripped her again. What if she'd been found out? A scream fought to escape. But she couldn't. She stuffed it down.</p><p>Three bottles of vodka lay undisturbed in her footlocker. Sveta grabbed one. She opened it and took a drink. Then she took another. With a groan, she fell back to sit on her cot. Running her right hand through her hair, Sveta tugged at the braids and felt the grime on her skull. All appetite had disappeared. With three words in the presence of the wrong person, Sveta knew she'd potentially endangered herself, and Zhanna too.</p><p>She was the one who had to keep up appearances. Zhanna just had to stay quiet. Sveta had conquered quiet once upon a time, but then she'd been forced to get loud. Unfortunately, she had to be loud and cautious. Just be loud about the right things, at the right time, to the right people. Play the game.</p><p>Sveta was a Pawn, not a Queen, though. She knew Beria had suspicions about her loyalty already. He'd sent her a rose, once, while she'd been in training. Sveta had never been so terrified in her entire life. The threat had come through clearly. Disloyalty meant worse than death.</p><p>Another drink, and another deep breath. Her hair fell over her face as she leaned over her knees. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to breathe. Instead, she saw red. Red roses, red stars, red flags, red blood.</p><p>One more drink.</p><p>The bottle sloshed as she closed it up and stuffed it below her clothes. Barely enough to numb the fear, really. Sveta climbed into her cot. She closed her eyes. The paradise she concocted in her mind eluded her. All she wanted was to see Russia as she imagined it could be. Instead, she got Russia as it was: Joseph Stalin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. ...'til the morning breaks...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It's been fifty-one months since I last saw you. One thousand five hundred and fifty days. Four years and too many hours to count.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I thought I would have been used to your absence by now. I thought that hole in my heart would have lessened or found something else to take your place. But that would mean you are dead. And you and Papa are not dead.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zhanna paused, the ink still fresh but the pen frozen in her hand. The pages of her journal had gone untouched since their arrival in America. She had last written in Britain, sharing with her mother that the plan had been made. They were going to America. Now that they were here and had been for a few weeks she hadn't opened the leather bound book. It had been a gift from Papa before they had left. Before everything had fallen down around them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>We have finally made it to America. It is all so strange, so intense and different. They don't like us, Sveta and I. In Russia, they made our life miserable because we were Polish. Here in America, they don't like me because I am Russian. They don't like either of us. Sveta burns them with that power she has, that glare that could turn someone to stone. I don't have that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Jumping out of planes wasn't my idea, you know. It's all Sveta. I've told you about her. You'd like her. I was worried I wouldn't be able to stay with her. I'm not a Samsanova. I'm just a Polyakova. In America, I'm not even that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'm Zhanna Casmirovna. Don't tell Papa. I'm not losing my heritage, just adapting. Like he always said, "Wherever you go, you can't get rid of yourself"</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He had said that as if to justify the polish-ness of their family, Zhanna recalled. Her mother would know what she meant. The brand of Pole that had been burned into the back of Zhanna's head by the glaring eyes. He had pride for his country and for his home. It had been his downfall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I can't get rid of Zhanna. I can't get rid of Polyakova. I can't get rid of the little Polish girl. So, I have to do my best, take the whispers and the jokes.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zhanna didn't want to worry Agata. When the journal had been passed into her mother's hands, it would mean that they were all right. That the jokes and whispers were a burden she had shouldered, like she always did. The men had stopped being outrightly against her presence and Zhanna wandered if that had something to do with Sveta's influence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Our XO is kind. Kinder than the rest, at any rate. Winters is his name. He isn't cold.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We are working hard, all of us. I don't mind the heights or the jumping. I haven't told Sveta but I'm scared that I'm not working hard enough. I'm smaller than the rest. Like back home, I have to run faster, push harder and do more. What if it isn't enough? Am I too weak to get those little wings?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We've passed Hanukkah. I didn't get to celebrate like we have in the past. I didn't get to celebrate at all. Sveta and I were hidden away in a corner of the camp, hiding from the few soldiers who remained on base. Everyone else went home. I can't.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I didn't think I would miss Russia. Not after all they've done and what has been taken from me. From us. But being left in Fort Benning with just Sveta made me realize how much I miss it. Maybe I just miss you?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They had said they would be home for Hanukkah. That this would all be over and they could go home, come back to Zhanna. Four years later and Zhanna wasn't there, waiting for them. What if they had managed to escape after all? What if they had come back to find her and she wasn't there? She had to get back to Russia. She had to shoulder the burden, shoulder the stares and glares and push. Push through with the chains dragging behind her because her parents were alive and waiting for her. She couldn't leave them waiting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>When I come home with Sveta, we will go far far away, where no one will care if we are Polish. No o</em> <em>ne will care that we are war will be over and my work as a loyal sniper will have paid off. We will be happy and free.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>That's all I want for us, Mama. Happiness. Freedom. No fear.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Do you think that's possible?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>One thousand five hundred and fifty days and not a minute passes that I don't think of you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Love,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Zhanna</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. ...take the power back...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>4 January 1943</strong>
</p><hr/><p>Fort Benning had been blissfully quiet while the Americans went home on leave. Sure, some stayed. Some didn't have the money to make the trips home, some didn't want to deal with the hassle. But most of them packed up their bags and climbed into trains to go see family for Christmas.</p><p>Sveta didn't understand Christmas. She knew it had something to do with the Christians' god, but she knew little to nothing about that either. Zhanna was Jewish, that much she knew. But Sveta had never understood it, nor the other religions. Her father had often quoted from the Soviet leadership: religion was the opium of the people.</p><p>And if there was anything Sveta didn't need, it was a drug to cloud her mind. She already had enough to deal with. Still, the holiday tree the Americans had put up for Christmas, it reminded her deeply of the New Year back in Russia. An unexpected wave of nostalgia had hit her when she'd laid eyes on it.</p><p>Christmas furlough had gone by too fast. Sveta spent her days resting, or trying to track down a new source of vodka, or swapping stories with Zhanna. Speaking Russian with her best friend made the daunting task of staying out of trouble a little easier.</p><p>But soon January 3rd rolled around, and the men returned. Fort Benning crawled with the Americans like insects startled from beneath a log. Sveta split from Zhanna in the morning. First Platoon had the initial jump.</p><p>Jump. A rush of excitement passed through Sveta as she walked across the center of Benning. A firm breeze hit her face, a bit chilly. Sveta loved it. It reminded her of home, some. Stalingrad had always been more moderate than the north. Though she'd hated Moscow, the Valdai Hills to its north-west had been one of her favorite places. For a moment, Sveta felt like she could almost relax.</p><p>Almost. When Sveta reached the hanger they'd been told to gather in for equipment and a briefing, the peace dissipated. A dozen of the men in her platoon had gathered already. It reminded her of the cocktail parties Stalin used to throw; too many people for it to be comfortable, too few for her to disappear in the crowd. It'd been a month and she still hadn't had a full conversation with any of them. She could put names to faces, though.</p><p>Martin, John, went by Johnny. Randleman, Denver, went by Bull. Her eyes scanned further. Luz, George, no nickname. Muck, Warren, went by Skip. Tipper, Edward. Alley, James, called Moe. Cobb, Roy. Harris, Terrence. Sveta did her best to stick to the periphery where she could watch them. Play the game, Sveta.</p><p>Luz, Perconte, and Muck stood together doing up each other's white harnesses. They hadn't even noticed her entrance. But as she walked over to the cadre who would supply her gear, Sveta's luck ended. Sisk caught sight of her. Just as she turned away with her gear, the comments started.</p><p>"How do you think she got to be a Louie?" Sisk asked.</p><p>Perconte started laughing. "Nah, Skinny. She ain't a Louie, she's a Louise."</p><p>Half the men who heard it started laughing. Sveta didn't really get it. She knew the men used Louie as a pet term, a sort of disparaging nickname for Lieutenants they didn't like. She supposed Louise was their attempt to make it feminine. At least their insults were getting more creative. But even as she felt her rage building, someone else stepped in.</p><p>"Hey, you two, shut it."</p><p>Sveta didn't turn to dignify their argument. But she did pause as she started getting her gear on. It sounded like Martin.</p><p>"Ah come on Pee Wee. That was a good one," Perconte argued. "Takin' her side?"</p><p>"I'm just sick of your fucking jokes," Martin snapped back. "One of these days, someone's gonna say somethin' stupid and get us all in trouble. So shut up."</p><p>The room settled a bit more. Almost all of First Platoon had shown up. To her dismay, Sveta realized she wouldn't be able to do the buckles all herself. She groaned. As she looked up, though, it surprised her to find Martin and Randleman heading over. She straightened up. None of them said anything.</p><p>"Why'd you do that?" she asked. It came out harsh, and Sveta wasn't sure if she'd meant it that way or not.</p><p>Martin glared, turning towards the other men for a moment. "Whether they like it or not, you're an officer." When she didn't reply, Martin just turned to Randleman.</p><p>"You can't do the straps yourself," Randleman finally said.</p><p>Sveta sighed. "No. I suppose I can't."</p><p>With a half-laugh, half scoff, Martin finally shook his head. "I'll do it. Stay still." He knelt down to get at the leg straps.</p><p>Her immediate tensing and lack of breathing didn't escape either man or Sveta herself. But she couldn't help it. Too close for comfort, it reminded her of the warnings her mother had always given her about Beria.</p><p>Never be alone with him. Never go to his estate. Never let Zhanna go. If you see Lana Stalina going, stop her too. And never, ever accept flowers from him or his guards.</p><p>"How'd you get that scar, Lieutenant?"</p><p>Sveta glanced at Randleman. For a moment, the question caught her off guard. She forgot about Martin's hands between her legs, and instead looked at the man who stood above her. How'd you get that scar? How'd she get it… she'd gotten it cowering in an attic, hands tied by rough chords, starving and covered in sweat. She'd gotten it mouthing off to a surviving member of the Whites. She'd gotten it the day she'd first realized she was not a person, but a puppet.</p><p>Anger surged through her. They'd used her. The Whites, the Reds, it didn't matter. In Russia, she was a pawn. Her hatred boiled over as she kept her voice as even as possible. "It wasn't a kitchen knife."</p><p>"Yeah, what was it then?" Martin stood up off the ground.</p><p>Sveta decided to leave it simple. "Politics."</p><p>"First Platoon! Gather up around me outside!"</p><p>At Lieutenant Heyliger's command, the chatter quieted. The noise of boots against concrete filled the hanger. Randleman and Martin both turned back to her and then walked away. Left to herself, Sveta almost regretted not saying more to them. For a brief moment, she'd felt something other than bitterness.</p><p>But only for a brief moment.</p><p>Soon the tiniest bit of warmth that had filled her chest at their seemingly innocent questions was replaced by deep, aching anger. Sveta didn't even know why she was angry. Then again, she didn't know that most of the time. It just burned inside her.</p><p>The directions given to them by the Sergeants Airborne passed in a blur. They told the enlisted how it would go down; twelve jumpers per aircraft, about a jump a day. On this first one, they had almost no gear, just what would keep them safe and secure. Each jump would get progressively more intense until they completed the final one at night on the last day. Only after that would they receive their wings.</p><p>Sveta wanted the wings for one reason only; it meant going home. Going home meant going back to the Red Army, and in the Red Army she could avoid Stalin and Beria and Samsonov, at least to a degree. She'd spoken to Stalin's son Vasily once after he'd joined the Army. He'd complained of the abuse thrown his way by the other soldiers. Sveta had always been thankful she'd not suffered the same, just cold shoulders and silence.</p><p>"Samsonova, Martin, Blithe, Alley, Luz, Spina, Dukeman, Tipper-"</p><p>Sveta tuned out the names after hers had been called. As the Cadre listed off the others in her plane, she just moved to the side where one of the instructors stood. Then she stopped. There he was. Nixon. He stood with Heyliger and Winters, chuckling about something as he sipped from his flask. Flashes of memories, of blue caps with red trim, of blood on a mattress, of girls with tear-stained cheeks leaving Beria's estate clutching flowers in their trembling hands, crossed her mind.</p><p>"Lieutenant?"</p><p>At Martin's voice, Sveta spun to face him. He watched her, eyes narrowed, before glancing past to the other officers. She released a long, silent breath.</p><p>"Corporal, what's the name of America's police?" She turned from where Nixon still stood with the lieutenants. "Who ensures your loyalty?"</p><p>Martin's flat expression only deepened. "What?"</p><p>"What does your government call the organization that ensures your loyalty? Who enforces your laws and punishes traitors?" Sveta shuffled as he still didn't answer. With a sigh, she shook her head ever so slightly. "Your secret police. What are they called?"</p><p>"We only have the FBI, Lieutenant," he said. "Not exactly a deadly secret police."</p><p>Her well-practiced expression of indifference faltered. Martin wasn't lying. He maintained eye contact, his breathing stayed regular. No sudden movements or changes. She frowned. Looking back at the lieutenants, she bit her lip. Society couldn't function without loyalty. Loyalty could only be ensured through careful monitoring. America had to have their own NKVD, their own Gestapo.</p><p>Martin wasn't lying, but maybe he didn't know what he was speaking of. She'd have to look into this FBI. They would truly be worth fearing if they didn't inspire fear in their people and still worked the shadows.</p><p>"What does Russia have, Lieutenant?"</p><p>Sveta glanced back at him. "What?" She could feel her eyes widening at the question. It took all her effort to stop herself. "Oh. It's not important."</p><p>Before he could say anything more, the cadre ordered them to line up. They had a ten-minute walk to the airfield, and from there, they'd jump out of an airplane. Jump from an airplane. The fluttering of her heart, the pounding of chest, it only escalated as she followed in the footsteps of the men of her platoon. No one questioned her taking up the back. By now they'd probably gotten used to it.</p><p>From the back she could watch them. Boots slammed against the concrete as they moved across base to the airfield. She took stock of the men. Martin led her stick in the march. Behind him, she recognized Blithe, Alley, Luz, Spina, Dukeman, Tipper, More, and Sisk among others. Most of them gripped their gloved fists tight. Blithe already had his helmet strapped up, but most of the others let theirs hang loose.</p><p>Dozens of planes sat stationary on the runway. Above them, the mid morning sun beat down on the gathered paratroopers in training. She shaded her eyes, looking up as they came to a halt by one of the planes. Back home, the same sun shone down on Stalingrad. Of course, in Stalingrad, the war raged. Sink had brought her up to speed on the battle.</p><p>The Nazis would not outlast her people. Russia would not be defeated. They knew the cold like no other people. Sveta felt herself smiling. The Motherland would see to her children. And someday she would get back there.</p><p>Her smile fell. What would she find? Sveta turned from the sky to look at the plane and the gathered men. Her jaw clenched. If she got back, she'd have to get away from Stalin and Beria and her father. She didn't know if she'd rather be a puppet for them, or for the Western allies. Allies. She shook her head.</p><p>"Lieutenant, you ever been on an airplane?"</p><p>She looked right. Martin had spoken to her again. The smoldering warmth she'd felt at his willingness to help, however strange she'd found it, returned. These questions weren't interrogations. Perhaps she could give him a bit more than a tart reply.</p><p>"Once," she told him. Turning from the plane, she looked around where a few of the men had slowed their movements. They listened carefully, even if they didn't want to be obvious about it. They weren't nearly as good at that as she was. Sveta hesitated before continuing. "From Tangier to Gibraltar, in June. It was a short flight."</p><p>Martin nodded. He seemed a bit surprised, but as with every interaction she'd had with him, he concealed it well. He'd have made a good officer in the Red Army. They always had to control themselves. As she turned away from him, the Sergeant Airborne had them board the airplane.</p><p>"Ladies first," More told her.</p><p>As the ranking officer, she would be expected to jump first. Sveta hated going first. She could feel their gazes on her whenever she walked ahead. But to hesitate would be to show weakness.</p><p>Without much gear, climbing the steps into the plane took almost no effort. But she knew later it would be worse, when their hundred pounds of gear hung from their bodies. Sveta scowled. She sat down across from the door, head high, shoulders tight.</p><p>Most of the men didn't spare her a glance as they heaved themselves into the aircraft. Soon enough, eleven men sat to either side of the belly of the plane. Across from her sat Martin. To his right sat Blithe. He rarely looked her in the eye. On most occasions, such an attitude would've been a welcome change from scathing remarks or scornful gazes. But every time she looked at Blithe, all she saw was the dozens of girls who she'd watched wash out of the sniper program.</p><p>Sveta had gone from the frying pan to the fire long before the paratroopers, long before the snipers. She turned from Blithe to the cockpit. The pounding in her throat intensified. She had to succeed. Failure meant death.</p><p>In a lot of ways, failure to get her wings reminded Sveta of failure to uphold the mask in Russia. In Russia, Beria watched her eagle eyed for any sign of disloyalty. Disloyalty from Sveta would give him ample reason to displace Alexander Samsonov. And while she had no desire to contribute to her father's political gains, his execution would be the least of her worries.</p><p>She could imagine it easily. First the public humiliation. Traitors to Russia, threats to the Motherland she held so dear. Stalin would probably turn them into public examples. No quiet thieves in the night to steal them away to the Gulag. Hopefully Premier Stalin would keep her out of Beria's hands. Even he could not be so evil as to hand her to that man. Sveta shivered. She saw red. Red roses, red stars, red flags, red blood.</p><p>Then a red light. Her eyes widened. She'd been so wrapped up in the nightmarish daydream that she'd missed take off. She'd missed so much. The fear of jumping out an airplane paled in comparison to the fear of Beria. The men around her stood up. Some shook where they stood, others tapped their feet though she couldn't hear anything for the roar of the engines and the wind outside the belly of the plane.</p><p>She followed suit. The plane rocked, and she moved her feet apart to take a better stance. Her hand began to cramp from her hold on the hook over her head. She could see the ground racing by far below. The Sergeant Airborne screamed instructions through the hurricane-like wind. Sveta couldn't understand them. The jumbled English might as well have been Gaelic. Her heart pounded.</p><p>Then the instructor motioned with his arms to check their gear. Sveta tensed. Her hand ached. Martin's hands on her body made her want to scream. She tried to think of something else. Anything else. Like the Volga in spring time.</p><p>"One okay!"</p><p>She turned from the open door to the Sergeant Airborne. The light turned green. Green like the grass of the Motherland. Sveta's mouth twitched up in a small smile. Moving to the door, she took a spot. Her hands went to either side of the door. She took a deep breath.</p><p>Remember the Volga.</p><p>Remember the beautiful golden sickle and hammer on the field of scarlet.</p><p>Remember home.</p><p>She leapt into the air. Freefall lasted a few moments, her count to four ending all too quickly. With a jerk, the chute opened and she looked around. Blue skies, fields of browned grasses and leafless trees below. Above, a silk chute, and others that dotted the tapestry of the sky.</p><p>So this was freedom.</p><p>Sveta didn't even notice the brief moment of pain from impact. Sitting up, she undid her harness with precision. One hook, then the other. The silk chute rolled into a ball in her hands. The pounding of her heart didn't calm. The grin on her face remained. For the briefest of moments Sveta had tasted total freedom, total control, total bliss.</p><p>What did the countryside of Russia look like from the skies? It had to be even grander than America. It stretched wider, had lands more varied. She felt her chest tighten at the prospect.</p><p>"Hey, Louise does smile," someone joked. "You owe me ten bucks, Tip."</p><p>She looked right. Luz and Tipper, also grinning from ear to ear, weren't far away making their way with her towards the rally point. She froze. They didn't spare her another glance. Sveta felt her fists clenching, the leather creaking as she did so.</p><p>Her smile evaporated. Trudging after the gathered members of First Platoon, she looked instead up at the sky. Men of the other companies had taken to the sky. As the planes streaked across the sky, black against the blue, she sighed. Freedom would have to wait.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. ...truth works two ways...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p><hr/><p>Zhanna thought she knew what to expect from the Americans now.</p><p>After their return from leave, the men of Easy Company were not welcoming by any means but they did tolerate her existence. Her place among their ranks was not publicly humiliated, instead only through whispers.</p><p>Zhanna didn't mind. Agata had taught her how to walk under the fiery glares of men and Casimir had never let her be ashamed of her heritage. She could work with whispers and a few jokes.</p><p>She knew Winters had something to do with it. He was kind and had stood beside her during training when he could, a tall ginger guardian. His shadow might not have been as familiar as Sveta's but Zhanna knew that it was a safe place. He had encouraged her to take her rifle to the shooting range, in an attempt to prove that she was just as much a soldier to his platoon, but Zhanna had refused. She didn't need them to believe in her.</p><p>The men had stopped their outward humiliation and jabs directed at her but Sobel had continued to berate her every chance he got. He was strategic about his confrontation, pulling weekend passes and throwing underlying insults whenever Sveta wasn't around. He knew he couldn't say anything in front of their linchpin to America and the Soviet Union's diplomacy but her little blonde friend wasn't anyone important. He thought Zhanna was the weak link.</p><p>He couldn't take away the rifle and he soon realized that the weekend passes meant nothing to a Russian soldier who would rather stay in camp. Sobel did the only thing he could do.</p><p><em>"Kitchen duty?"</em> Sveta snapped.</p><p><em>"Yes."</em> Zhanna sat on her bunk in that tiny little shack, the only housing provided for the two, and laced her boots. She had been given the worst punishment Sobel could hope to offer, working in a camp kitchen. Like that was punishment. Like she hadn't been working since she was six years old.</p><p><em>"You aren't here to wash dishes. You're here to train."</em> Sveta didn't understand. She couldn't understand. She was valuable to Easy company but Zhanna knew she had to be careful. She couldn't explain to her friend why she was taking the punishment.</p><p><em>"I know,"</em> Zhanna grunted in the effort of tightening the still stiff laces of her boots. She missed her Russian made leather boots, abandoned in their escape. <em>"But I can't say no."</em></p><p>
  <em>"Yes you can. I'll talk to Sink about this. He can't make you-"</em>
</p><p><em>"If you tell Sink, he will reprimand Sobel. And Sobel will never give me a moment's rest."</em> Zhanna said. <em>"You can't solve everything with your name, Sveta."</em> She didn't mean to sound almost bitter. Standing, she softened her words and looked up at her friend, pleading. <em>"Just let me do this and we can get those wings and go home, yes?"</em></p><p>The kitchen wasn't a horrible place but it did give the men a new set of insults and made her exhausted. She started to lag behind in the training, working early in the morning and late into the evening in the kitchens, scrubbing pots bigger than she was. It was a punishment and she knew Sobel was waiting for a reason to have Sink pull her from the Paratrooper program.</p><p>Maybe it was because she was a girl? Or maybe it was the Russian rifle she was still permitted to carry? Or maybe it was in Sobel's nature to find the one in the group who was smaller than the rest and break them down slowly.</p><p>Zhanna couldn't allow him to make her his next victim. So she woke up before the sun and before the other men, she worked, elbow deep in boiling hot water and she made it to formation on time. Zhanna had spent most of her life doing more so she could be equal, working harder and longer. This was just a different military and a different country.</p><p>As training continued and she pushed herself harder than she ever had before, Zhanna started to falter. She had been so confident in her ability to go home, to see her family again and to make sure Sveta arrived in Russia safely. She hadn't cared if the men teased or the insults that Sobel threw. She had Sveta and that was enough. But the tiniest seed started to sprout in the darkness of her gut. It grew as the weeks continued, through the training and the heat of the day. The night wind rushing through the belly of the plane only fed it's growth as she watched the men check equipment and pass jokes before they jumped from the plane, assured that their fellow soldiers would be on the ground waiting.</p><p>She didn't have anyone on the planes who would be waiting for her on the ground, not at the beginning of training and not now, on their final jump. Zhanna's boots hit the ground and she rolled, the soft darkness and the hard dirt sending her skidding. The wind couldn't pick up her chute or she would be sent flying, her weight not enough to hold it down. This was their final jump and she couldn't mess it up. She was so close to having those little wings in her hand.</p><p>Zhanna fought with the release, her fingers pulling at the strap that was taut against her pounding heart. She cursed under her breath, the Polish word that her father had taught her and swore her to secrecy. The buckle finally gave way, perhaps frightened by her hiss of "Kurwa," and she rolled onto her knees to drag the parachute towards her in the dark grass.</p><p>Around her she could hear the men dropping, the whisper of the wind through the silk and their boots thumping to the ground but she didn't have time to call out to them. Not that they would have answered. Zhanna packed up the parachute like she had been taught and at which she excelled and stood, watching the silhouettes rise out of the shadows, their packs full and their eyes bright.</p><p>They were paratroopers now.</p><p>She walked to the pickup point alone. The men had used the word "Currahee" as a kind of mantra throughout training and slowly, Zhanna had picked up the meaning. "Stand alone together."</p><p>Zhanna was in the crowd of men who walked, laden with gear and relief, as they swapped jokes and laughed their way back to the pickup, where the busses would carry them back to Fort Benning. She walked alone. Zhanna was in a crowd of men but was invisible to some and unwelcome to most. She was lonely but not alone and the word started to sting when it was tossed into the air like a victory cry. She had thought the men's anger at her presence and the whispers wouldn't have hurt, that Zhanna had been used to worse, but she was wrong.</p><p>That little seed in her stomach had blossomed into a flower, that brought the truth rising in her chest. It stuck in her throat as she watched Liebgott and Grant shout in jubilation at their achievement.</p><p>"Are you excited?" Winters had appeared behind her, looming out of the darkness. Zhanna didn't say anything at first, just watched the men pass her, filling in spaces in that place beside the road. The energy was electric, warm and almost heavy. They were excited and she should be too. As Guarnere put it. "Even the little Ruski made it."</p><p>But Zhanna didn't feel excited. She felt unsettled. "Where is Sveta? I mean, Lieutenant Samsonova?"</p><p>Her voice was rough from disuse. She didn't speak often. Every time Zhanna did, there was a flicker of surprise in the men's eyes, even in Winters's.</p><p>"She'll be with her platoon." Winters said.</p><p>Of course. They were always separated. But Zhanna had hoped that she would be able to find her friend and celebrate like the men around her. To find that one ally she had on American soil and to share in the excitement. Those little wings were theirs and they would be taking flight. Going home.</p><p>"Yes, I am excited." Zhanna said, though it was a lie. She had the potential to be happy but right now, she could feel the glares of the men still on her back and the dark eyes of Nixon were sure to be watching.</p><p>"I'm sure Lieutenant Samsonova is happy," Winters said, trying to make conversation with the sniper, as if they were friends. "You'll be able to go home."</p><p>Turning her gaze back to the ginger Lieutenant, Zhanna studied him. They were close, Nixon and Winters. Was this all a tactic to get her to open up? To spill the secrets? There was so much more to be done before they could go home. Those wings just gave them a place on a boat back across the Atlantic. They still had to get home.</p><p>Months were passing and Zhanna's parents could be waiting for her. Or...</p><p>No, don't say it. They are alive. They are alive and they are waiting for you.</p><p>"Yes," Zhanna said. He wouldn't get any information from her. She might not have been as important as Sveta but she still knew enough. She knew that Stalin would trade the world away for Sveta, because of the allegiance between her father and himself. Zhanna knew that Veronika's death had been enough to thoroughly change Sveta, solidifying her fury and passion. But Winters didn't want to know any political secrets that Zhanna might have overheard or anything about Sveta.</p><p>"You have come a long way together. You're very close." He asked her a question that Zhanna had burned into her mind and flesh, scarring every inch of her skin. "Why?"</p><p>Why? Why did she follow Sveta to the ends of the earth? Why had she, a scared little Polish girl, been welcomed into the great household of the Samsonovs?</p><p>
  <em>"We can't keep you."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You are putting us in danger."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Zhanna, this is your new home."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"They are doing this for you. Out of kindness."</em>
</p><p>Kindness. Zhanna was indebted to kindness. The Samsanovs had been Zhanna's only hope. Because of them, she was alive and had a rifle in her hand. But those hands were bound to Veronika and chained to Sveta. Because she was alive she had to earn their grace and hospitality. Their pity.</p><p>"Because our paths are intertwined." Zhanna knew that no one understood Sveta. Her fire and her fury. Zhanna didn't always understand the mind of her friend but she didn't have to. Zhanna knew she would fight for Sveta until her dying breath. She didn't have to understand her to owe her.</p><p>"I see," Winters said, though Zhanna wasn't sure he did. They couldn't possibly understand what she had been through. No one could. So she didn't bother to share. Sveta knew enough but most of Zhanna's past was kept to herself. It was better that way.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. ...paranoia is in bloom...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>7 April 1943 | Camp Mackall, North Carolina, United States</strong>
</p><hr/><p>They'd been members of Easy Company for nearly four months. And yet despite the time, Sveta felt that not much had changed. Her platoon had stopped their heckling sometime around the end of Fort Benning a month previous. Evidently they'd found a new target. Or perhaps someone had stepped in?</p><p>Doubtful. Winters had helped Zhanna some, something she felt grateful for, but she'd gotten nothing but cool cordiality from anyone. Not that she minded.</p><p>Sveta disliked Sergeants Martin and Randleman least. Her platoon sergeant, Harris, annoyed her. Several of the men from Zhanna's platoon irritated her too, like Guarnere and Liebgott. Talbert talked too much. Several men in her platoon suffered from that. Luz, Perconte, Muck, Hoobler, and Sisk all prattled endlessly. It made her beyond grateful to retreat to the closet she and Zhanna called home every night.</p><p>At first, being stuck into a literal supply closet had angered every fiber of Sveta's being. When they'd arrived at Camp Mackall and Winters had shown them their accommodations, even he had seemed apologetic. He'd frowned, and taken a few deep breaths, his shoulders sagging as he explained that it had been the best the battalion could do. Only his kindness to Zhanna had spared him from her choice words.</p><p>It couldn't have been over ten feet deep. Some shelves had been removed, but the nails that had held them fast stuck out at random places along the wall. A flickering light bulb hung down from the ceiling by about fifteen centimeters. At night they had a pull chain made of fraying cord that shut it off.</p><p>Sleep eluded her many nights. Outside, in the massive brick barracks building for the officers, footsteps would echo in the hall. Light would flood through the bottom of the door. Even on days when her muscles ached and her eyelids drooped, it made things difficult.</p><p>Zhanna never complained. Not that she ever complained about anything. With her, she would either be silent and do as told, or be silent and defiant, ready to pull a trigger if it meant keeping her goal on track. At least they'd completed step one.</p><p>They had their wings. Every time Sveta got in the air, in the belly of those planes with the door open to the sky, wind rushing through the cabin and shaking the craft, she felt happy. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way. She'd almost forgotten it. The way her cheeks could sting from smiling, the gentle pace her heart would beat, the smoldering warmth in her chest.</p><p>Four months in, and Sveta had finally found it tolerable in America. She could ignore most of her platoon. As long as she kept a close eye on Nixon, she'd not found any other nosy threats. Every so often she'd have short, cordial conversations with Martin and Randleman in training. Four months in, though, the universe had decided she'd had enough happiness.</p><p><em>"Lieutenant Winters said he trained with the 82nd,"</em> Zhanna told her. She sat with her back against the wall on her cot, polishing the rifle she held so dear.</p><p>Sveta nodded. She'd heard that too, but from Lieutenant Nixon after she'd had another meeting with Sink about Stalingrad's progress since the Russians had retaken it. He'd attempted to joke with her, make small talk. But she didn't trust him. <em>"A Lieutenant Harry Welsh."</em> She paused, undoing the right side of her two braids. <em>"And I had just gotten used to Heyliger."</em></p><p><em>"I'm sure you'll do fine,"</em> she assured her. <em>"If not, I'll shoot him."</em></p><p>That made her smile. She could always count on Zhanna for encouragement. She owed her for that. <em>"At least Nixon's been transferred out,"</em> Sveta added. <em>"I still don't think he's with the NKVD, but he watches you too closely."</em></p><p>Zhanna stopped her mindless cleaning. Looking up, she met Sveta's gaze. <em>"You as well."</em></p><p>Of course. But Sveta was used to that. It made her heart pound in her chest and searing anger settle in her bones, but she'd played the game since she was thirteen. Since 16 April 1935. Almost eight years ago. She paused in her brushing, her thick hair hanging loose to her bust. Eight years. Eight years of fear, eight years of anger.</p><p>That meant three years in August since her mother's passing. Her hand clenched around the wooden brush. Passing. More like murder. Veronika Samsonova may have pulled the trigger, but Alexander Samsonov, Lavrentiy Beria, and Joseph Stalin had killed her. It had been an NKVD Korovin pistol. Just like Lana Stalina's mother.</p><p>She'd never been able to explain to Zhanna what hate felt like. She didn't know if her friend really knew it intimately. Sveta did. It felt like someone had lit a fire in her chest. It made her shake, tremble with fury at the thought of the way Stalin could smile in all his photos. Stalin's wife had killed herself. Samsonov's wife had killed herself.</p><p>Sometimes, when she lay in bed at night, Sveta worried she would be next.</p><p>
  <em>"Sveta?"</em>
</p><p>At Zhanna's voice, she looked up. Her knuckles had turned white from her grip on the brush. With a sigh, she put it down. Curling up into her knees, she shrugged. <em>"How are the men in your platoon?"</em></p><p>The door flew open. Sveta jerked back in surprise. Against the light of the hallway, a man came to a halt. He seemed as surprised as they were. Leaping to her feet, Sveta sized him up and moved a bit in front of Zhanna. He stood shorter by several inches. A lieutenant's bar flashed in the light. His frown turned into a smile. At least she'd not changed out of her fatigues yet.</p><p>"Let me guess. You're Lieutenant Samsonova," he said, "and you must be Lieutenant Casmirovna. Jesus, they stuck you girls in a closet?"</p><p>She didn't like the way he smiled. Less sinister than Nixon's, but it seemed less genuine than Winters'. More of a smirk. She narrowed her eyes, looking down at him. "Who are you?"</p><p>"Lieutenant Harry Welsh. Guess we'll be working together," he added. Leaning a bit to look around her, he spoke to Zhanna. "And you're in Dick's platoon?"</p><p>"She is," Sveta snapped. "Is there a reason you're in here?" The nagging of her mother to smile filled her mind. Starting off poorly would be bad for both of them. She attempted to frown less.</p><p>His own smile dropped a little. With a roll of his eyes, he gestured back down the hall. "Colonel Sink wanted someone to get him a vase, or something," he explained. "Sobel volunteered me."</p><p>"Sounds like him," she muttered. But Sveta's pride had taken one too many blows. With a growl, she turned to Zhanna and spoke to her in Russian.<em> "I am finished with this goddamn closet."</em></p><p><em>"It's a nice closet."</em> Zhanna tried to placate her. But it fell on deaf ears.</p><p>After a quick glance around, Welsh smirked when he found what he was looking for. He pulled down a clouded glass vase from a shelf that remained. "There we go."</p><p>"I'm coming with you," Sveta told him. She left no room for argument, grabbing the leather jacket they had given her and slipping back into her boots.</p><p>Welsh shrugged. "Suit yourself."</p><p>She spared Zhanna a last look before the door closed. The stupid closet door. The shack in Benning had been barely tolerable. This, she wouldn't stand for. Her boots pounded against the concrete. The noise echoed off the walls. Beside her, Welsh inspected the dusty vase with a frown. She sighed. Smile, Sveta. It wasn't this man's fault that Sink had stuck her in a cell.</p><p>With a small scoff, he stuck it under his arm. He rummaged in his pocket. "I thought I had it bad being an errand boy for a day," he said. With a rueful smirk, he looked at her. "You two have it worse."</p><p>"Get used to it, Lieutenant," she told him.</p><p>He offered her a cigarette from his pack. Sveta hesitated. As they turned the corner and came to the large doors to the outside, she accepted. The black sky had a few hundred stars speckled across it and a full moon nearly at its peak.</p><p>After he lit hers, and then his own, Welsh spoke again. "There's a lot of talk about you two around the base."</p><p>Sveta scoffed. "This does not surprise me. Americans are far too loose with their tongues." She took a deep drag of the smoke. Not as good as a drink of vodka would've tasted, but something at least.</p><p>He started chuckling. "Oh, come on, Lieutenant. We're not that bad."</p><p>The only response she gave him was a roll of her eyes. She had to give him credit, though. Unlike the other officers she'd met, he didn't ask questions. A welcome change, really. So she tried to force at least a neutral smile onto her face and slowed her pace. "I am not used to it. It's very different in Russia."</p><p>They moved down a brick path towards the nearby headquarters that Sink and the rest of the Battalion staff had for their offices. In the dark, they rose like black towers. Dark windows, dark doors, dark everything. Except for two windows on the ground floor. Light spilled out though her view was obscured by curtains. Around them, very few men moved about. Only the sentries, really.</p><p>"He might still be here," Welsh told her.</p><p>They both dropped their finished cigarettes onto the ground before ducking inside. The off-white hallway seemed to glow in the low light. She followed Welsh out of the entry down to the left. Sink better be there. She had half a mind to light a fire under him and wake him up.</p><p>He poked his head into an office. "Hey, Nixon, is Colonel Sink still here?"</p><p>Nixon. Of course he had to be here. Sveta shook her head. She supposed it made sense. They had transferred him to the Battalion that morning. Leaving Welsh to chat to him, she moved to Sink's. Only a desk lamp lit the room. He'd left. A quick glance around the room confirmed it.</p><p>Her heart stopped. Sveta couldn't breathe. Her mouth dried. It couldn't be. In the desk lamp's light lay a half dozen roses.</p><p>Red roses.</p><p>Red like blood.</p><p>Red like the bands on the NKVD caps.</p><p>Red like Beria's wax seal.</p><p>It couldn't be him. He couldn't be here. Tears stung to her eyes, pricking at her like needles. In the desk lamp's light, they almost glowed. Fragile, but with thorns. Her hand trembled as she covered her mouth. Flashes of memory, of the tear-stained face of her mother as she rubbed her temple at her desk at home, burdened by fear daily, filled her mind.</p><p>Blood had spilled from the same place on her head when Sveta had found her on the mattress. Red roses. Red like the blood of Veronika Mikhailovna Samsonova. Red like the blood of Nadezhda Alliluyeva Stalina.</p><p>She felt the room spin. Sveta stepped back. She knocked into something. Not something, someone. Nixon and Welsh had both entered the room. The overhead lamp came on. Smile, Sveta. Smile. Smile!</p><p>"Sink left about ten minutes ago," Nixon told her. Then he frowned. "You okay?"</p><p>Smile, Sveta.</p><p>Smile.</p><p>Smile!</p><p>She turned from him back to the roses. He didn't know. He couldn't know. If he knew, the Americans would've been searching the base for signs of a Russian infiltrator. Or they'd have pinned it on her.</p><p>"Lieutenant?" Welsh added.</p><p>She forced herself to breathe. The lump in her throat hurt to force down. She pointed at the roses. "Who are those from?"</p><p>"The flowers?" Nixon chuckled.</p><p>"Who are they from," she demanded.</p><p>He stopped laughing. They all still stood nearly in the doorway. Sveta glanced past the two men into the hall. She didn't hear anyone. She didn't see anyone.</p><p>Welsh shrugged. "Sink's wife," he told her. "Apparently she grows them."</p><p>Nixon's dark eyes narrowed. "Why?"</p><p>Nixon monitored her every move. She could feel it. Sveta narrowed her eyes. His wife... Turning back to the roses, she moved closer. Sink's wife. Her heart raced.</p><p>"Why, Lieutenant?"</p><p>Sveta glanced back at Nixon. Dark eyes, dark intentions. Pulling herself up straight, she tried to act as nonchalant as she could. His wife. Not a spy, not yet at least. Sveta took a ragged, deep breath. "Merely curious," she replied. Then she frowned.</p><p>"Sorry you missed him," Welsh ventured.</p><p>But Sveta just shook her head. "It doesn't matter. We can survive a closet. Sleep well, gentlemen." Wasting no more time, she didn't spare the roses another glance. She pushed past them. Her boots pounded against the ground like drums until she burst out into the night.</p><p>Sink's wife. Sveta sighed. She'd gotten lucky. But she knew her luck couldn't last forever.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. ...hung high and dry...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>After months in America, Zhanna had grown used to jumping out of planes. </p><p>It was not enjoyable but a necessary evil. Those wings that were now proudly displayed on her chest meant that she would be going home. But she still had a long way to go. </p><p>Sveta had quickly built up the appearance of the perfect diplomat, something Zhanna had seen many times. She would throw it up, like a brick wall. Impenetrable and ever present. She had been trained to recognize it, know when to hide behind the imposing figure of her friend, cowering in her shadow so that Svetlana Samsanov could release her fire. Zhanna was happy to let her be the one to fight. It meant no one expected her to fight. </p><p> In the Red Army, she had been able to hide behind Sveta. Keep her head down and her finger on the trigger, bringing in the kills while her friend kept up appearances. In the American army, in the Airborne, Zhanna was left alone. So she had fallen into the only role she knew. The cowering girl who hid in shadows and didn’t meet eyes. </p><p>This gave her a wonderful escape. As the men grew used to her presence, the joking stopped being quite as threatening and more of a habit. A jab at her height in morning formation and then they sat in easy silence. A joke about her assumed heritage and then they would let her join the line to get her gear. They didn’t trust her and the gazes stayed suspicious but they were used to her. </p><p> Comfort meant security but that didn’t equate to her safety. So she stayed on her toes and pushed herself just as hard, if not harder. Once Sobel saw that kitchen duty hadn’t dulled her resolve, he resorted to the only way he could humiliate her. The men were prepared to turn on her at any moment and as the training drew to a close, tensions were growing. Sobel was, at least, a cunning man. </p><p> One of the final pieces to their training was a two day maneuver that would present a mock landing and troop movement. They would jump into the deep pine forests of North Carolina and then mobilize according to orders. Zhanna knew how to follow orders. Zhanna knew how to jump out of planes. But these orders were like nothing she had ever had to do. </p><p> They landed, like they had practiced. They moved in a pack, like some sort of animal, that would be easy to follow. Easy to see. There was no real purpose to their movement, not that Zhanna could see and she tried to find one. They trekked all night, in circles it seemed. Before finding a place in a ditch, kneeling in mud and sodden pine needles with only the dawn’s dim light to see by. </p><p>It seemed Sobel’s leadership proved just as underwhelming in application as in practice. Sobel couldn’t read a map. That was one mark of many in a list Zhanna kept mentally tallying. He couldn’t read a map. He didn’t know his north from his south. His officers were carrying most of the weight. Zhanna shuddered. These men wouldn’t survive a real fight following this captain’s orders. Their bayonets might be spotless but they wouldn’t fulfill their purpose if the soldier who carried it was killed because of negligent orders. </p><p>Zhanna’s heart raced, crouching in that grave of a defensive position. It was packed with soldiers and guns and she couldn’t find Sveta. She couldn’t find Sveta, just rows of khaki uniforms and a heavy musk of nervousness. They had always been together when sent on mission. The damp leaves sent a heavy chill setting into her bones. Nothing to the extent of Russia’s frigid winters but Zhanna shivered still, despite the long sleeved undershirt she wore. She shivered, glancing frantically around for Sveta as the cold started to numb her fingers and tighten her chest. A spotter and a sniper were nearly inseparable. But Sveta wasn’t in her view and Zhanna couldn’t sit in this coffin any longer. </p><p>Zhanna knew how to follow orders but she also knew how to ignore them. She wasn’t an infantryman, or a paratrooper. She was a sniper. And snipers didn’t sit in foxholes, waiting to be found. Snipers watched. Snipers shot first. </p><p>No one was watching her as she dug her fingernails into the soft dirt and hoisted her body over the side of the ditch. She could barely see out of it, standing on her tiptoes and she grunted as she scrabbled for purchase. Crawling like the rats that had lived in the alley outside of her home in Stalingrad, Zhanna thanked her lucky stars that no one paid attention to her. She might as well have been invisible. </p><p>A few hundred meters from the dugout position that Easy Company had holed up in, she found the perfect place to hide for a lookout. The oak was gnarled, offering hand and footholds, and the leaves were sparse but not barren. She would be concealed but her vision wouldn’t be obscured. Settling against the trunk, Zhanna surveyed the forest from her newfound height, relaxing at the familiarity. In Russia, she had found boulders, cliffs, trees and sometimes, tall grass, to shroud herself in, providing cover. </p><p>Lifting the rifle to her shoulder, it fit snugly in the hollow of her arm. The familiar weight set the hammering in her chest at ease. She was in position. She was a sniper. And through the scope, her trained eyes caught movement. </p><p>In training, Zhanna had been taught how to make her own hides, using leaves, grass and grease paint. The forest was a painting and the camoflauge, an extension of it. She had also been taught how to identify them and, while these were good, Zhanna could identify at least ten lumps that didn’t quite fit into the canvas of the forest. </p><p>Ten lumps that would be directly in Easy Company’s path if they moved out, as Captain Sobel was now instructing them. As if their position, however unsettling, wasn’t the most decent tactical position in miles. As if, by risking his men’s lives, Sobel would be able to scrounge up enough intelligence to figure out how to read a map. </p><p>Zhanna fought with herself for several moments. This wasn’t real but seeing the men pack up and assemble into a tactical pillar twisted something in her mind. These men didn’t know how to disobey orders. These men didn’t know how to stay alive. They followed in blind faith. She couldn’t let them walk into the ambush. </p><p>Climbing back down from the tree, Zhanna’s breaths came in short gasps as she ran to catch up with the already advancing company. They didn’t wait for her, or even notice when she rejoined them, not until she called. </p><p>“Captain Sobel!” </p><p>He turned, from the front of the pack, where he led. Zhanna wasn’t sure if she could call that leading but he was putting on a good show. Sobel’s face darkened as he watched her approach, his lip curling as he said. “Lt. Casmirovna, what the hell were you doing?” </p><p>“I was staying alive, sir,” Zhanna said, with uncharacteristic vigor. Sobel looked around nervously as the words sent a ripple of whispers through the ranks. Some of the men chuckled at her words but they didn’t understand the urgency. </p><p> “Lt. Casmirovna, I suggest you watch yourself,” Sobel snapped. “And stay with the company.” </p><p>“Probably didn’t want to get her skirt muddy,” Someone whispered behind Zhanna. She looked down at her khaki skirt, stains already mottling the fabric. She shivered at the damp feeling of the dugout slowly freezing her over. </p><p>“You are walking into an ambush, sir,” Zhanna said, already regretting her decision to save this group of Americans who had never cared for her. This wasn’t furthering her goal. This wasn’t an order she needed to follow. What had she been thinking, sticking her neck out for these men? </p><p>The laughs and whispers stopped. This wasn’t Europe, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t war but a heavy blanket of sobriety fell over the company. As if her words had brought some newfound layer to their mission. This wasn’t a trek in the woods. This was war. </p><p> “Lt. Casmirovna, fall into formation.” </p><p>Just like that, Sobel dismissed her warning and any concern for his men. It shouldn’t have surprised her, and Zhanna wasn’t really shocked. She was disgusted. She had forgotten that mankind could be so indifferent. Zhanna fell into step beside Winters, ignoring the heavy stares on the back of her head and she seethed silently. It wasn’t anger at Sobel as much as at herself. </p><p>She didn’t meet Winters attempts to catch her gaze, but kept scanning the treeline. Any moment now they would cross paths with those soldiers she had seen. Any moment now, Sobel would see she had been right. Not that it mattered. He would never respect her but it would prove to the men that she didn’t just carry the rifle for show. It would prove to them everything Zhanna had worked so hard to earn. Even in America, the land of possibility, she had to prove herself. </p><p>The pine needles muffled the sounds of their footsteps but didn’t completely conceal them. The clinking of metallic buckles and trinkets set the hairs on Zhanna’s arms raising. Any moment now. </p><p>“Where did you see them?” Winters murmured, almost imperceptible. </p><p>She didn’t answer for a moment, her own footsteps stalling as she scanned the underbrush. Zhanna’s hands shot out, grabbing Winters and the only other soldier around her, Muck, and yanked them to their knees, letting out the barest trace of a whisper. “There.” </p><p>Her words died in the air before the men, concealed in brown fronds and leaves, stood, leveling their rifles at Easy Company. They emerged from the ferns ambushing them just as Zhanna had promised. She released her tight grip on Winters and Muck’s uniforms, allowing them to stand, as an officer said, “Captain, you have just been killed along with ninety-five percent of your company. Your outfit?” </p><p>“Easy Company.” Came Sobel’s bewildered reply. He looked shocked by the soldiers who held him at gunpoint from the shrubbery. Zhanna hoisted her rifle higher on her shoulder and muttered a curse, one that Casimir had reserved for especially troublesome people. </p><p>Muck turned to her, “How did you know they were there?” </p><p>“I looked.” Zhanna said, simply. </p><p>“Are we supposed to be impressed?” Liebgott snorted. Zhanna didn’t like Liebgott. He was loud, had a thick accent, and was always making fun of her height, as if he wasn’t the size of a sapling himself. Agata would have said he needed to eat more and would have invited him over for dinner. Zhanna didn’t want to eat dinner with Leibgott. She didn’t want to be around him more than she had to. </p><p>“If I was American soldier, would you be?” </p><p>Something shifted in his eyes and he turned, moving to stand by Grant instead. Sobel was selecting three men to pronounce dead and Zhanna almost wished he would choose her. Some short period of respite, no matter how brief. </p><p>“You left the company,” Winters said, quietly, as they started their trek back to the assembly area. “Where did you go?” </p><p>“I am a sniper,” She said simply. “I don’t hide in the ground.” </p><p> “You didn’t follow orders.” </p><p>There it was. The blind faith. Zhanna had seen it in every face in Stalingrad. They had such a trust in the orders they followed, as if the lives they led didn’t mean death to someone else. “The military teaches you how to follow orders but they don’t teach you how to stay alive.” </p><p>It was basic survival. Zhanna had followed Russian orders all her life. She followed orders until she couldn’t anymore and then it was just her. Her against them. It was always her against them. It seemed she would do the same with the American army. </p><p>“And who taught you?” WInters asked, almost boldly. As if he couldn’t contain the question. “Who taught you how to stay alive?” </p><p>The little star of David warmed against the skin of her throat, the chain tightening it’s silver links as she swallowed. It felt heavier today. It had traveled the world with her, from home in Stalingrad to America. </p><p> “I did.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Look out for an extra Sunday update tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Second Report</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lewis Nixon | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>FOR: Lt. Col. Robert Sink, Commander, 506th PIR</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>SUBJECT: Summary Notes on Activities of Soviet Liaison 1st Lt. Svetlana Samonova and colleague 2nd Lt. Zhanna Casmirovna</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>DATE: May 16, 1943</em>
</p>
<p>On a good day, Nixon could easily drown out the droning chatter of Dick and Harry. Usually it was pretty mindless, tales of training or sometimes complaints of Sobel that they'd whisper in secret in his office in the Battalion HQ. He enjoyed his office much more than he ever enjoyed slogging away behind Sobel. Here he could drink and smoke and do work in peace. And here he had a fan and some shade.</p>
<p>He reached for his glass of whiskey. Harry had just finished reading a letter he'd gotten from his sweetheart Kitty. With that done, a bit of quiet settled over the relatively small office. Dick had taken up one of the two desk chairs, sipping at a glass of water. Harry, on the other hand, had perched himself on a desk at the other side of the room. The clicking of the overhead fan filled the silence. He sat back.</p>
<p>"What am I supposed to say in this?" Nixon shook his head.</p>
<p>"What do you usually say?" Harry sipped his own glass. With a quick gesture towards the closed door into the dark HQ, he just shrugged. "Lieutenant Casmirovna seems to be doing better."</p>
<p>Nixon scoffed. "Yeah. I'm surprised Sobel didn't march her to Sink after that stunt."</p>
<p>"At least she's talking more," Dick argued. "Second Platoon likes her a bit more."</p>
<p>With a nod, Nixon straightened up in his seat. He put his fingers on the typewriter keys and set the paper. He nodded.</p>
<p>
  <em>Part One: Continued Observations of 2nd Lt. Zhanna Casmirovna</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Previous reports reported on the slow but steady integration of Casmirovna into Easy Company's 2nd Platoon. The woman has continued to remain a silent part of the company, but in the last few days has improved relations with both enlisted and officers. On the maneuvers of May 14, Casmirovna displayed-</em>
</p>
<p>What had she displayed? According to Dick, Sobel had muttered words of insubordination and ineptitude. The enlisted had called her insane but seemed less disgruntled about her existence. But Dick insisted her improvisation had been inspired. She had climbed into a tree, escaped death, and explained as such to Sobel. It seemed finally that she'd gotten comfortable enough, either with the men or with her English, to speak up for herself.</p>
<p>
  <em>-courage and ingenuity in her approach. Casmirovna took it upon herself to scale a tree for a better view of the field and thus escaped as one of the few survivors among the casualties of Cpt. Sobel's group. Her actions were truly inspired. 1st Lt. Richard Winters believes her inventiveness will be a real asset to Easy Company.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I believe Casmirovna will only continue to improve in her relationship with Easy Company. If Casmirovna becomes more integrated into Easy, I believe 1st Lt. Svetlana Samsonova will follow suit.</em>
</p>
<p>Svetlana Samsonova. He still hadn't figured her out. Then again, he hadn't figured out Zhanna either. It annoyed him if he was honest with himself.</p>
<p>"If you think any harder you might strain something, Nix," Dick said.</p>
<p>He looked up. Both Harry and Dick had turned to him again. Glancing at Harry only made his frown deepen, thinking about the way Svetlana had acted when Harry had first arrived. It didn't make sense. Something was very wrong.</p>
<p>"Harry, Svetlana hasn't said anything to you about what happened?" he asked.</p>
<p>Harry shook his head. He took a drink. "Nope."</p>
<p>Nixon didn't need to say anything more. They all knew what he'd referred to. When Svetlana had left, fled, from Sink's office, Nixon had brought Harry up to speed on his observations and opinions of the Russians. Since then they'd had many conversations between the three of them.</p>
<p>"You've not found anything, Nix?" Dick asked.</p>
<p>Nixon sighed. He sat back, molding into the wooden swivel chair. "No," he grumbled. "There's nothing that would explain how she acted. I mean she panicked over flowers, for Christ's sake."</p>
<p>"It doesn't sit well with me," Dick agreed.</p>
<p>Nixon let out a rueful laugh. "Yeah. You don't say." Straightening up, he read over what he had so far. Nothing about Svetlana. What was he supposed to say? He should probably report her odd behavior. But something had stopped him that night, and because he still didn't have an explanation, he still didn't want to say anything.</p>
<p>"Maybe she's allergic?" Harry suggested.</p>
<p>With a shake of his head, he just sighed. "No, I don't think so."</p>
<p>"Maybe she'll tell us," offered Dick.</p>
<p>"That's a laugh, Dick," Nixon said. "It's been months, and I swear she's even less talkative than she used to be."</p>
<p>"The enlisted still compare her to Sobel," Harry added. "She's competent though. Knows her way around the weapons and the maneuvers."</p>
<p>"I'll do some more digging," Nixon assured them.</p>
<p>But Harry just shook his head. "Why don't you just ask her?"</p>
<p>"Ask her? Svetlana Samsonova, the perpetual frown?" What a laugh. Nixon shook his head. "You're crazy, Harry. She'd bite my head off."</p>
<p>He turned back to the report as Harry tried to defend himself. One drink, and then his hands went to the keys. Svetlana Samsonova. She had made some strides, he supposed.</p>
<p>
  <em>Part Two: Continued Observations of 1st Lt. Svetlana Samsonova</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There has been some improvement of Samsonova's relationship with Easy. She has made a few connections with the enlisted in 1st Platoon, and 2nd Lt. Harry Welsh reports her efficiency within maneuvers. Her rifle scores are elite, likely due to her training as a sniper for the Red Army. Not quite as high as 2nd Lt. Casmirovna, but better than the majority of the Regiment.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Samsonova continues to resist integration into Easy, but I believe with the strides being made by her companion 2nd Lt. Casmirovna that this will change. I will continue to report on that progress. Samsonova has not made any suspicious moves, either. Overall, I am pleased with her progress.</em>
</p>
<p>Nixon looked up. "I know Martin and Randleman talk to her. Anyone else, Harry?"</p>
<p>He shrugged. "Not really." A quick drink, and then he continued. "She stays by herself. And Sobel always orders her about as far from him as possible."</p>
<p>Dick couldn't suppress a small smile. He shook his head. "Some things never change."</p>
<p>"The one benefit of having her around," Nixon joked, "is getting to watch Sobel bang his head against a wall when she pulls strings."</p>
<p>He meant it, too. Sometimes Nixon wondered if Svetlana knew how much it irritated her platoon, though. The fact that she could contradict their CO but they couldn't, it rubbed them the wrong way. Roy Cobb was still the most vocal about it, but no one seemed particularly happy. At least Sergeant Martin seemed to have convinced them to keep their objections quiet.</p>
<p>
  <em>RECOMMENDATIONS: for Lt. Col. Sink's consideration</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>1. Maintain observation of both 2nd Lt. Casmirovna and 1st Lt. Samsonova with continued reports as needed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>2. Continue 1st Lt. Winters taking a more active role in the integration of Casmirovna into Easy Company.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>a. Samsonova may need a more pointed integration as well. I will monitor her relations with the officers and enlisted.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>3. Continue the investigation into Samsonova's connection with the NKVD. While I do not believe she is an active spy, the possibility cannot be ruled out at this time. I will continue to investigate until told otherwise.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Submitted by 1st Lt. Lewis Nixon, Easy Company, 506th PIR</em>
</p>
<p>"Done." He took the last paper out of the typewriter and stood from the desk. His legs hurt. For a Sunday night, he'd done far too much work and far too little drinking. "Time?"</p>
<p>Dick glanced at the clock. "2215."</p>
<p>"Jesus Christ," he muttered.</p>
<p>Harry laughed. "You know, if you didn't put those off, you wouldn't have to stay up doing work so late."</p>
<p>Nixon looked at him. The other man smirked back, and he shook his head. "Shut up. I had a weekend pass. Can you blame me for putting this off?"</p>
<p>As he tucked the report into an envelope, the other men stood up as well. They flipped the lights and fan off. While Dick scolded him for delaying his responsibilities, he nipped to Sink's office just down the hall.</p>
<p>Placing the folder in the commander's inbox, he sighed. In the dark of the office, he found himself transfixed on the empty vase that had held the roses nearly a month ago. What had set her off? What was Svetlana so terrified of? And how did Zhanna fit into it all?</p>
<p>Dick had mentioned her comments about following orders versus staying alive. She had taught herself the latter. Why?</p>
<p>"Hey, Nixon, you coming?" Harry called.</p>
<p>He sighed. Turning away from the dark office, he pulled the door shut and. It locked. They had more training, and more maneuvers in the coming week. He needed sleep. Pushing away the questions, he focused on the drink in his hand and the conversation at his side.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. ...how I got this way...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Months into their stay in Camp Mackall and the Americans still whined about crawling around on maneuvers. They could go on and on when they wanted to. 'Sobel's a jackass,' 'it's wet,' 'how are we supposed to learn anything following these directions?' Not that she didn't agree with their complaints against Captain Sobel. But ever since those roses...</p>
<p>Sveta readjusted her helmet. They'd done a jump before sunrise into a nearby part of the state. The sun should've risen, but the clouds had opened and rain made the world grey. She yawned. From her position crouched behind a tree, she could see the enlisted setting up foxholes. They had to defend their position until Major Strayer told them otherwise.</p>
<p>About three meters to the right, Luz and Perconte had a foxhole. Beyond them were Sisk and Hoobler. After a moment of peering through the haze, she found Martin with Cobb. That wouldn't end well. Cobb had too much of a mouth on him. He liked to talk about his experiences in Africa, scare as many of the more fragile men as he could. Martin didn't take kindly to that.</p>
<p>Scanning the pine forest, Sveta looked for any sign of enemies. They had to defend against Dog Company, a company she had come across more than once. They mostly ignored her and Zhanna. In the beginning, Zhanna had mentioned their whistles and jeers. But it hadn't taken long for them to lose interest.</p>
<p>A heavy raindrop fell on her face, splashing into her eye. Sveta growled out a Russian curse. To her left, she saw Blithe flinch where he sat with Randleman. She rolled her eyes. They had never quite gotten used to her language.</p>
<p>She could hear a few murmurs below the rain. The squelch of boots on muddy ground filled the air, and she whipped around, standing upright. Welsh came up behind her, water droplets rolling down his metal helmet and dripping from his nose. He grimaced.</p>
<p>"See anything?" he asked.</p>
<p>She shook her head. "No." All she could see were dark trees and huddled men.</p>
<p>"So. What's Russia like?"</p>
<p>Sveta turned. The question caught her off guard. Welsh just observed her, the edges of his mouth creeping up into a small smile. She didn't answer. It confused her. Why was he asking? What did he want to know?</p>
<p>"I've heard it's cold."</p>
<p>"Yes. It can be cold," she agreed. After a moment of watching the forest, she turned back to him. Since he'd arrived a month ago, she'd come to respect Welsh. Not like him, but respect him. Kind of like Martin and Randleman. He did his job well and didn't watch her like Nixon. "Why?"</p>
<p>"Honestly?" He shrugged, chewing on some gum. "When someone gets scared by a bunch of flowers, I get curious. Nixon thinks I'm crazy to ask. I figured it's better to ask than snoop around your files."</p>
<p>She turned back to him. No one had ever said anything like that to her. For a moment, her expression softened. He didn't watch her, just looked past her and the trees into the haze.</p>
<p>"Nixon didn't send you to beg for answers, then?" she muttered. "I know he's watching us. I'm not stupid."</p>
<p>Welsh smirked. "No. Like I said, he doesn't think you'll tell me anything."</p>
<p>She turned away from him again. Still no sign of Dog, just more rain and more wind. The noise would obscure the enemy. But their sentries had found nothing. On the one hand, she knew telling him anything would be dangerous. She found it unlikely that Lieutenant Welsh was a spy, and she'd decided a while ago that Nixon wasn't NKVD. But there were ears everywhere.</p>
<p>Then she looked around. The trees didn't have ears. And between the rain and the wind, even the enlisted men wouldn't really be able to hear. So she turned back to him. "What do you want to know, Lieutenant?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. You tell me. What makes someone afraid of flowers?"</p>
<p>"Experience," she told him. Experience. Knowledge. Self-preservation. That was all he would get about Beria. "What else?"</p>
<p>"Alright. Are you a spy?"</p>
<p>She turned to him in surprise. "If I was, would I tell you?"</p>
<p>Welsh laughed. "Thought I'd ask. Your dad's Stalin's buddy though."</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Are you?"</p>
<p>She froze again. Her heart beat faster, the pounding in her chest all too familiar. But the rain continued. The wind rustled the branches. "It would be dangerous to say otherwise," she told him. "I'm Russian. If I were to say I found Stalin despicable, they could accuse me of treason."</p>
<p>He smiled. "What else are you not allowed to say, as a good Russian?"</p>
<p>"Many things," she admitted. She could tell by the way he listened carefully and maintained a tight smile that he understood what she was doing. She couldn't disown Stalin outright, but there were more ways to communicate than straight answers. "If I said anything that could be used as proof of my disloyalty, it would not end well for me or Zhanna."</p>
<p>"Or your family, I presume?"</p>
<p>Her jaw clenched. Anger surged through her. Stained bed-sheets, limp hands, the dark barrel of a Korovin pistol flashed across her mind. Welsh must've seen a change, because he turned to her head-on. "Not good?"</p>
<p>"My mother, Veronika Samsonova, died in 1940," she said, seething. "Killed herself with her husband's pistol. She was weak, disloyal. A disgrace to Russians everywhere," she said.</p>
<p>"Or so Stalin says," Welsh surmised.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, I would never dream of contradicting the Premier of all Russia."</p>
<p>He hummed in agreement. A silence fell between them, filled only by pitter-pattering rain. Sveta looked out. She narrowed her eyes. A movement to the left, past where they'd deployed the edge of the platoon, caught her eye.</p>
<p>"What?" he asked her. Welsh followed her gaze.</p>
<p>She bit her cheek. Sveta took out her rifle. They had blanks only, and not many at that. Apparently the Americans feared dirtying their guns. She couldn't be sure, but Sveta's gut told her to be ready. Memories of Smolensk made her muscles tighten and breathing slow.</p>
<p>The first shot made the enlisted jump. Sveta just flattened herself against the tree trunk, her body ignoring the knot that dug into her shoulder blade. Welsh dove to a tree nearby before shouting orders. Sveta slowed her breathing. Focus. Breathe.</p>
<p>She readied her gun. Chaos echoed around her, enlisted men shooting off blanks wildly, some better aimed than others. The shouting escalated. With a nod to no one, Sveta tightened her grip. Then she spun out from behind the tree.</p>
<p>Her first shot hit a man straight in the chest. He stammered something, cursed, and lowered himself to the ground. One down. Mere seconds passed before her next blank found a target, and the third. Her fourth went wide of a short but stout paratrooper with a blue armband and she used the tree as cover again.</p>
<p>Slow the breathing. Focus. Sveta tried to block out the surrounding noise. With a shaky inhale she readied herself again. She raised her gun.</p>
<p>When she spun out from behind the tree, she came face to face with a man a few inches taller than her. He had dark eyes. And apparently a strong grip, as he ripped her rifle out of her hands and sent her stumbling back. It took a moment for her to recover. But as he raised his own gun, she dove forward and collided with him.</p>
<p>It knocked him back. Sveta wasted no time. She grabbed the gun, her hands slipping a bit in the rain as she tried to wrestle it from him. In the scuffle, his foot slid in mud and he hit a tree awkwardly. It gave her the edge she needed.</p>
<p>The gun slammed into the ground a meter away. She stared at the man across from her. Even in the rain she recognized him. Speirs. He locked eyes with her as he picked himself back up from the tree. They'd never formally met. Sveta saw her own rifle behind him. He looked at his behind her.</p>
<p>Before she could move to his gun, he lunged. Sveta tried to dodge, but in the increasingly muddy forest, her boots slipped. Sveta groaned as she slammed into a tree root. A sharp pain and the taste of blood filled her mouth. Her helmet rolled away.</p>
<p>With a furious grunt, she rolled over and grabbed his leg as he moved past her to his rifle. Speirs tripped. But as she pushed herself up, her hands digging into the mud they'd kicked up in the spat, her side screamed at her. A pain like an icy dagger ripped through her left chest. Sveta couldn't breathe. Her body gave out, and she fell deeper into the ground.</p>
<p>"Stay down!"</p>
<p>Hair filled with mud and pine needles, she glared up at Speirs. But she was in no position to argue. A neat bruise had already formed on his jaw. With as much fire as she could muster, Sveta smiled.</p>
<p>All around them, her platoon nursed wounds. Where the hell had Sobel been with Third Platoon? As Speirs moved away, picking his rifle off the ground and flicking off the mud, she narrowed her eyes. She hated losing.</p>
<p>As she tried to push herself up, the pain shot through her again. Sveta hissed, grabbing at her side. The nearby tree became her support.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, are you wounded?"</p>
<p>She looked over. Private Spina, medic. He picked his way to her, his gaze roaming over her messy form. She'd always respected the medics in Russia. But this was America. "I'm fine."</p>
<p>"You need to get back to the rally point. They have an Aid station," he reminded her. Massaging his arm, he grimaced. "Come on. I'm going too. Got shot in the arm," he muttered.</p>
<p>All around her, the men who had been shot with blanks or downed by hand-to-hand grumbled and groaned. Welsh was talking to what looked like a captain, one of Major Strayer's aids, probably. Speirs stood with him. Where the hell was Sobel?</p>
<p>"Lieutenant?"</p>
<p>She turned back to the medic. With a frown, she just nodded. "Fine."</p>
<p>They walked side by side towards a jeep nearby. Sveta objected, insisting she could walk to the rally point, but when Spina prodded at her side and she flinched back, he shook his head. He feared a rib injury. So she clambered up into the back, teeth drawing blood as she bit her cheek against the pain. He joined her.</p>
<p>As luck would have it, the medic on duty at the rally point was Eugene Roe, the ranking medic from Easy. Zhanna had mentioned him once, describing him as quiet but diligent. Before long, she found herself with the two Easy Company medics in a small side tent.</p>
<p>"Rib, I'm guessing," Spina told him. Then he turned to her. "Does it hurt to breathe?"</p>
<p>Sveta sat on a small, portable table. She grimaced. "Some."</p>
<p>"How'd it happen?" Roe asked.</p>
<p>"I fell, hit a tree root."</p>
<p>He nodded. Then he hesitated. "I gotta check for bruising, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>Her heart stopped for a moment. She'd known that was coming. But lifting her shirt even for medics made her pause. Fury smoldered in her chest. Anger at herself, at the weather, at Speirs for tripping her. But she knew better than to yell at a medic.</p>
<p>"Fine." She pulled off her coat first. The movement caused another sharp pain, but she forced it away. Smile, Sveta. Smile through the pain. Or at least don't flinch. Once Spina took her coat, she eased her regular shirt off. The tank top she wore beneath it had been soaked, too. Soaked to the bone.</p>
<p>Roe hesitated, but moved over to her side. He was tall, like Speirs. Dark eyed, too. With careful movements, he rolled up her tank top to get a look at her side. Based on their grimaces, it didn't look good. And as he touched the skin, she just tensed. The pain and the reminder of her mother's warnings fueled the flinch that followed.</p>
<p>"It hurts when you bend?" Roe asked again. He looked up at her, still crouching a bit to get at her side. At her nod, he frowned. "I ain't sure, but I don't think it's a break," he told her. "Definitely bruised it good, though. You're gonna need to stay off it."</p>
<p>"Not possible," she argued.</p>
<p>Spina let out a small laugh, almost a scoff but less angry. His arms folded over his chest. "Listen, Lieutenant, if I learned anything from being trained as a medic, its yah don't mess with rib injuries."</p>
<p>Roe agreed with him. "I said I don't think it's a break, Lieutenant. But you could hurt it further, and it could harm your lungs," he said. "This ain't a suggestion. The doctors'll agree." He frowned. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p>Her fists clenched. It turned her knuckles white. But she reminded herself to smile and nodded. "Fine. How long, then?"</p>
<p>"Four to six weeks," he said. "The doctors'll know more. You should head back to the base. You need to see them."</p>
<p>Smile, Sveta. Breathe. Medics could mean the difference between life or death in the field. It wouldn't do to curse one out in training. So she just nodded. "Fine."</p>
<p>"Come on," Spina said. "I'll head back with yah."</p>
<p>"Trying to make sure I follow your instructions, Private?" she snapped.</p>
<p>Instead of glaring back at her though, he just let out a light laugh. "Yep."</p>
<p>Medics. Sveta shook her head, but slid off the table with care and took her coat from Roe. He offered her a small smile. It was a kind smile. Less guarded than Dick, she found that she liked it. She liked both of them. But she'd never say it out loud. Not yet, at least.</p>
<p>The rain had lessened to a cool mist by the time she reported to Strayer and got formal orders to accompany Spina back to Mackall. It took genuine effort to suppress her discomfort. Even though their driver did his best, the jeep bounced and rocked all the way back.</p>
<p>But Spina just shrugged. He offered a small smile. As the jeep pulled up outside the hospital at Camp Mackall, she sighed. Four to six weeks. She wanted to scream. But she didn't. She just forced on a small smile, following Spina into the hospital with as much poise as she could muster covered in mud.</p>
<p>After x-rays and some ice packs, Sveta eased her way back towards the barracks. Thankfully, her rib hadn't fractured. But even she had grimaced at the purple and red bruising that littered her left chest and abdomen. Each breath stung. Bending made it worse. It took all her patience not to get mad.</p>
<p>The door to their closet crashed as it shut behind her. Stuffy heat filled the small room, dark until she pulled on the overhead lightbulb. Swirling emotions made her collapse into the cot. With her back against the wall, Sveta released a breath. She closed her eyes.</p>
<p>She could feel her cheeks flush in the heat and the frustration. Her head lay against the wall. Injury was the last thing she needed. There was too much going on. Beria loomed over them like a shadow. Well, over her. Not Zhanna. She kept Zhanna as far from him as she could. She would never let that man near her best friend. Tears pricked at her eyes.</p>
<p>But he loomed over her. Welsh's questions from earlier came to mind. Something about it, maybe the way he'd asked without expectation, it nagged at her. Sveta wasn't a stranger to questions. Usually, they were interrogations, sometimes obvious like when she'd arrived in Britain after Tangier. Other times they were subtle, manipulative, underhanded. Dangerous.</p>
<p>Welsh hadn't interrogated her, not in either way. He'd asked her questions, but he'd been upfront about it. He didn't hide his curiosity. He didn't deny Nixon's snooping. Instead, he'd just… asked her.</p>
<p>When a knock at the door woke her up several hours later, Sveta narrowed her eyes. It took a bit of effort, but she slipped her coat on over her tee-shirt and moved to the door.</p>
<p>"Welsh?" she asked. He stood there, sipping at his canteen, looking cleaned up. Sveta narrowed her eyes. "What?"</p>
<p>He frowned. "How's your rib?"</p>
<p>"Bruised, not fractured," she told him. "Where's Lieutenant Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>He rolled his eyes, anger replacing concern. "Sobel has her doing some stupid chore for him. I don't know." Then he tried to soften his expression. He pointed to her side. "What's the recovery time?"</p>
<p>"At least four weeks," she said. Sveta frowned again. Her throat constricted. She could feel her palms sweating. "I assume… I assume you'll tell Nixon what I told you?"</p>
<p>He nodded. "Probably."</p>
<p>She knew fear. She'd known fear for years. But this, this felt different. Be very careful what you say. That's what she'd grown up hearing, even more after 1935. But Veronika Samsonova had died because she'd kept her mouth shut. Sveta didn't want to end up pointing a pistol at her own head.</p>
<p>"I'll come," she stammered. His surprise didn't escape her, and she frowned. "I need to make sure I am fairly represented. You Americans are loose with your words, and often gossips."</p>
<p>That made him laugh. A genuine laugh too, not malicious or scornful. It confused her. But she stepped beyond the closet she'd accepted as her lot in life and closed the door. Harry told her that Nixon had another late night of work in his office, so he and Winters planned to keep him company.</p>
<p>"Did we win?" Sveta asked him. The walk to the Battalion HQ didn't take long, but it reminded her of a month previous when she'd stormed to find Sink and instead found roses.</p>
<p>Welsh scoffed. "No. But we did better than last week."</p>
<p>She nodded. The sunset of reds contrasted the grey skies and rainstorms of the morning. They passed a few officers and enlisted, but overall their section of the camp stayed quiet. Sveta figured anyone who had been involved in the maneuvers was taking advantage of their beds.</p>
<p>When Welsh opened the door to Nixon's office, they interrupted Nixon and Winters chuckling into their canteens. But they stopped as their gaze rested on Sveta. A lump formed in her throat. Nixon's dark eyes reminded her, again, of the spies of Stalin's regime.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant!" Winters said. He stood up from his chair.</p>
<p>Sveta almost found the differences between the three men comical. Nixon, with his carefully crafted smile and sharp eyes. Winters, with his perpetual straight face but kind gaze. Welsh, gap-toothed smile and unworried movements. Of the three, Sveta again found herself thinking Nixon to be the only real threat. She turned to Winters.</p>
<p>"Lieutenants."</p>
<p>"Heard Speirs did a number on you," Nixon joked. "What are you doing up?"</p>
<p>What are you doing up? More like what the hell are you doing, speaking to us willingly. Sveta forced herself to smile, shrugging. "Well. Those reports were exaggerated, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>"Does it hurt?" Winters asked. "Sobel said you'd be out for a month."</p>
<p>Sveta raised her chin, refusing to let them see how it pained her. But she nodded. "It does. Nothing I can't control, I assure you."</p>
<p>After a moment of silence, Nixon smirked again. He slumped back into his chair and tossed a small yellow folder onto the desk. "If you're here to take my whiskey, I will have to say no."</p>
<p>"I prefer vodka."</p>
<p>"What can we do for you, Lieutenant," Winters tried.</p>
<p>They didn't like silence. Sveta couldn't blame them really. She didn't find it particularly pleasant either, not when surrounded by people. Silence in the wilds of Russia, that she could stay in forever. With the wind on her face, she could relax. But not here.</p>
<p>Sveta turned to Nixon. "I know you're monitoring us," she said. "But, I think you already knew that."</p>
<p>They'd gone silent. It would've made her smile if she'd not been terrified of other ears. So she just hesitated. Nixon sat behind his desk, Winters a bit to her right in a chair he'd pulled out. To her left, Welsh leaned against a filing cabinet, arms across his chest. With a silent exhale, she turned around and glanced at the frosted pane of glass in the door. No shadows on the other side. So she turned back.</p>
<p>"Stop digging, Lieutenant," she said.</p>
<p>"Pardon?" Nixon placed his glass of whiskey onto the desk.</p>
<p>Sveta moved a bit further from the door. "All three of you. Stop digging." Hesitating, she glanced around. No glints of hidden mics or odd out-of-place wires caught her eye.</p>
<p>
  <em>"Be careful what you say to them, Sveta."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Smile, Sveta. That's what they expect of you."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Hold your tongue, Sveta. Don't let them see your anger."</em>
</p>
<p>Sveta knew fear. She'd known it intimately since 16 April 1935, but it'd always been there. Veronika had known fear until she'd died bleeding out on a mattress. Her mother had died because fear had kept her silent. Sveta couldn't stay silent.</p>
<p>"If I tell you anything, Lieutenant, it stays out of your reports," she insisted. She held his dark gaze. Then she looked at Winters, where he'd settled into his own chair, and at Welsh, where his brow had furrowed and he watched her closely. Then back to Nixon, in his place of security behind his chair. "What do you want to know?"</p>
<p>To her surprise, Nixon didn't speak first. Welsh did. "So why does Casmirovna call you Sveta, but no one else can?" Everyone in the room looked his way. He turned to Nixon and Winters. "What! You're not curious?"</p>
<p>Sveta laughed. She didn't know what she'd expected, but not that. Covering her mouth, she just shook her head. "In Russia, nicknames, shortened forms of our names, they're used only between close friends and family. If someone else were to use it, it's insulting," she admitted. "My full name is Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova. Only Zhanna may use Sveta."</p>
<p>"Your father, Alexander Samsonov," Nixon started, "he's a close ally of Stalin." Getting up from his desk, he moved around, sipping at his whiskey. When he came to the front of his desk, he leaned against it, sitting slightly on the polished dark wood top.</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "Yes."</p>
<p>"How'd you get your scar?" Welsh asked.</p>
<p>Without even thinking, her hand flew to her face. The skin felt smoother where it had scarred over, after a nasty bout of infection. What could she tell them? She needed to tell them enough to placate Nixon. The more she said about herself, the less maybe he would look into Zhanna. That would help. Place the threat to the Americans on herself, not Zhanna.</p>
<p>After a moment, she glanced at Welsh. Taking a deep breath, pain stabbing into her side, she leaned a bit against the door behind her. Winters stood up immediately and offered her the chair. For a moment she just looked at it. It would be easy to subdue her in a chair; both Winters and Nixon had significant height on her. She bit her cheek. For Zhanna. She had to get their attention as far away from her as she could. So she lowered herself into the chair.</p>
<p>"You're sure no one is listening," she finally ventured. At their confusion, she tried to explain. "Have you checked the room for microphones?"</p>
<p>"You're safe," Winters assured her.</p>
<p>Safe. She'd not been safe since she'd been born. But Sveta humored him. "In April 1935, an enemy of Stalin and my father, a man they'd fought in the Revolution, he held me for ransom," she told them. "By then, most of the enemy had been found and dealt with. They'd missed him," she added, bitterness escaping her carefully practiced tone. "I spent ten days in an attic in Rostov-on-Don."</p>
<p>That clearly hadn't been in their dossier on her, because all of them straightened up in surprise. Nixon even breathed out a "Jesus Christ."</p>
<p>"How'd you escape?" Winters asked.</p>
<p>Sveta smiled, but not with her eyes. A bitter smile, an angry smile. "I'm a Samsonova. The NKVD got me out." As Sveta sat there, she could remember the screams. She'd known fear. The faces of the children haunted her at night, children who had been killed for her rescue at her father's command. "So. That's what the scar is from."</p>
<p>"You're scared of them."</p>
<p>Nixon didn't pose it as a question. Them, the NKVD. Them, the men in blue caps with dark eyes, hiding in shadows, waiting for Sveta to step out of line so they could make an example of her. Scared didn't scratch the surface. Scared was listening to ghost stories. Scared was running late for an event.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, I don't think you grasp what the NKVD is capable of," she started. Sveta could feel the sweat cold against her palms. She glanced at the door. Still no shadows. "There are names worse than Stalin in Russia, and there are things worse than death. At least death is quick."</p>
<p>"Why'd your mom kill herself, Svetlana?" Welsh asked.</p>
<p>She turned to him. Her first name hadn't crossed the lips of a single officer since the first day. She bit her lip. Why had she killed herself? She'd killed herself because death had been a welcome escape.</p>
<p>Sveta turned to Nixon. "You cannot put this in writing, Lieutenant." When he went to respond, she added, "if this gets into writing, you will find out just what the NKVD is capable of."</p>
<p>"Is that a threat?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Yes." At the silence in the air, she let out a tentative breath. "To both of us."</p>
<p>She couldn't stop the way her hand trembled. That mask was slipping. She couldn't let it slip. Not now. Not ever. Not while Beria walked the earth. When all three of them agreed to silence, she nodded.</p>
<p>"One of Stalin's closest friends is Lavrentiy Beria. Stalin appointed him head of the NKVD in 1938. Since then, he has carefully worked his way up the political ladder."</p>
<p>"We know Beria," Nixon confirmed.</p>
<p>"No." Sveta shook her head. "No, you know of him. You do not know him, Lieutenant. My mother and I…" She paused, not sure how to put it, and still concerned for who was listening. But finally she just sighed. "We don't support Stalin. But if Beria could prove that, my father would be executed, and I-" The words caught in her throat.</p>
<p>What would happen? Execution? Or would they bring her into the Beria estate to be used at his whims? Raped until she died? Thrown into the Gulag? Would she be pulled into a side street to be shot by a firing squad?</p>
<p>"Well." Sveta looked down. Gathering herself, calming her nerves, she shook her head. Then she looked up. "My mother couldn't keep hiding. So she shot herself."</p>
<p>"Jesus Christ," Nixon repeated. "Does Beria know any of this?"</p>
<p>"I don't know."</p>
<p>But she did. Sveta knew. The first roses had shown up after the funeral. Red ones, a large bouquet. But not as a condolence gift. Tied to the roses was a name that Sveta recognized immediately. Her governess, the wife of one of her tutors, Zhanna's old host family. The governess who had disappeared after Veronika's death.</p>
<p>Red blood on the mattress. Red roses in a vase. Red flags on the cars.</p>
<p>After that, Sveta knew the game would be harder. She had to keep Zhanna as far away as possible. Stalin's daughter, Lana Stalina, she wouldn't be in danger. Stalin would murder Beria if he touched her. But she, Sveta Samsonova, was the perfect target. Her mother had told her never to accept flowers from him, to never be complicit in his crimes.</p>
<p>Some of the women he took into his estate were never seen from again. Some were arrested as they sobbed and screamed for help on their way out. The ones with the flowers usually had silent tears streaking down their faces as they moved past the guards. And they never once complained.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant? Svetlana-"</p>
<p>They were staring at her. Winters had spoken. It took a moment before she took a breath, not realizing she'd stopped taking in air. She had to leave. She had to get out. But hopefully, Nixon had enough to satisfy his curiosity. Hopefully, he had enough to leave them alone.</p>
<p>"Don't pull on these threads, Lieutenant. You know enough," she said. It sounded shaky at first, so she swallowed, and tried again. "Leave it alone. Leave us alone." She got up to leave, cringing back at the way the movement aggravated her side. "Shit."</p>
<p>"Where are you going?" Welsh asked.</p>
<p>"I need to rest. Aren't those my orders now?" she told him. "And I need to find my friend."</p>
<p>As the door slammed closed behind her, Sveta couldn't get her hands to stop trembling. Everyone assumed she had such power. The way the enlisted would shrink back, how Sobel would defer to her, how Sink kept her happy. Power. Sveta nearly laughed. The closer to power you got, the more dangerous life became. She didn't have power. She had a counterfeit facsimile of power. She had the power Beria allowed her to keep.</p>
<p>The moon shone down above her as she stood outside the headquarters. Every shadow deepened as she looked around. Sveta frowned. She didn't want to be the next name. She didn't want to be the next one to put a bullet in her head to escape. What was the saying, though? Bad things happen in threes?</p>
<p>Nadezhda Alliluyeva Stalina.</p>
<p>Veronika Mikhailovna Samsonova.</p>
<p>Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. ...take another chance...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A very special Happy Birthday to Flora! Take this Zhanna chapter in celebration! Be on the look out for part two of the Samaria tomorrow as normal.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>6 September 1943 | RMS Samaria</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>Agata had kept Zhanna close by her side when they left home, always in arm's length. It was for safety as much as comfort, the streets of Stalingrad a lawless place. It was lawless for those who were lesser. While she hadn't appreciated it in the shadow's of the inner circle's towering homes, Zhanna had come to rely on it. That closeness and the smell of her soap was a comfort and she didn't miss it until she had lost her.</p><p>Zhanna hadn't wanted her mother's hand on her own until Agata and Casmir had left her with Maria. She couldn't hold her new guardian's hand so she had filled the hole with a need to follow close behind. In Maria's shadow, she had pushed closer and lurked in the safety it had provided. There were no smiles or whispers of "Perelko," but it was something. It was safe.</p><p>Then she had been ripped from her too and Zhanna had been left, in the bright sun, without a hand to hold or a shadow to step into. No safety for that split moment, until she was passed, like goods on bartered exchange across the plush carpet of the Samsonov home, no longer living in the alleys that were overcast by the stones and wealth, and Zhanna's hand had been clasped in Sveta's. She had been safe ever since, looking for that shadow.</p><p>She had followed her, that debt and that shadow calling her name but she had lost that too. One split second, Zhanna had turned her back on Sveta for a split second and she was gone, swept up in the crowd of soldiers. They had been on the ship, the RMS Samaria, for no more than a few moments. She had turned to watch the shadow of the great statue, the one that stood for Liberty, freedom and a plethora of American principles, falling over her like a blanket. The little wings pressed against her skin only a few inches from the star of David that Agata had clasped around Zhanna's neck before she kissed her goodbye the final time. It hit her then. She was going home.</p><p>She turned, to tell Sveta, to share this moment with her and the chains of the necklace tightened around her throat like a garrote, threatening to suffocate her before her fear did. Sveta was gone.</p><p>Zhanna did the only thing she could, the only thing she had ever known how to do. She pushed her way through the soldiers, through the crowds, and searched for Sveta. She wasn't in the long hallway that led to the staterooms for officers. She wasn't on the deck. Jostled and shoved, Zhanna's breath came in short gasps. The lifejacket's strings, pulled as tight as possible, trailed behind her, a leash to her devotion. It took all her self control to not break into a run, as if speed would help her find Sveta.</p><p>The Samaria had the look of faded glory, a king with a dying kingdom. Zhanna was out of place here, even here. She kept going, the subdued carpet leading to a staircase, going down down down. She shivered and took a step.</p><p>Something yanked her back. Her chin collided with the floor, her teeth grazing the side of her mouth. Zhanna lay dazed there for a moment, while the world righted itself and the panic set back in.</p><p>"Oh shit!" It was Skip Muck. His voice, the deliverer of many jokes at her expense, was one she was familiar with. But his tone wasn't teasing but one of genuine concern. "Are you okay?"</p><p>"Jesus, Skip, you broke her!" Malarkey was the constant companion of Muck and a member of the mortar squad. His presence wasn't a surprise. Skip pushed her onto her back and lifted her up by the front of her life preserver.</p><p>"Gee, Shortstop," Skip said, sheepishly as he dusted imaginary imperfections off her life jacket. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd go flying like that."</p><p>Zhanna couldn't answer, the salty taste of blood was still in her mouth and her shortness of breath hadn't been assisted by the fall to the floor. She had the wind knocked out of her and Zhanna's lungs were trying to remember how to function.</p><p>"What are you doing down here?" Malarkey asked, glancing around as if he was worried Sveta had seen their abuse of her partner. "Shouldn't you be with Samsonova?"</p><p>"I can't find her." Zhanna said, breathlessly. Skip set her back on her feet and she swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. "Do you know where she is?"</p><p>"I don't usually keep tabs on her," Muck admitted. "Come with us, don't want someone else to knock you over."</p><p>Zhanna should have said no. She could have said no, and kept wandering around the ship until, by some miracle, she found her friend and spotter. But Zhanna didn't want to be alone.</p><p>So she said, "Alright," allowing them to lead her down that set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the metallic space.</p><p>"How did you and Samsonova end up as partners?" Malarkey asked, as if he couldn't contain the question any longer. "I mean, she's…" his voice trailed away.</p><p>Sveta was a Samsonov. Zhanna was only a Pole and a Jew. They didn't know that, of course, but she was obviously lesser in standing to her friend. Anyone could see that and she was surprised it had taken them this long to ask.</p><p>"I came to live with her family when I was fourteen," There was so much that Malarkey and Muck couldn't understand, and they would never understand, if Zhanna had a thousand words to explain. She could never bring them to fully comprehend the intricacy of their relationship. Zhanna didn't even understand it.</p><p>She had been fourteen. A child, who had only known survival, given to the powerful Samsonovs. Sveta didn't understand her and Zhanna didn't understand Sveta. But they had stuck together through it all. Through Veronika's death and sniper training. And they would stick together until their feet touched Russian soil again.</p><p>"You were adopted?"</p><p>"No," Her presence had brought only suffering to the Samsonovs. She brought that curse with her. Their kindness was already too much, a heavy weight on Zhanna's mind. Was it really kindness, or was it pity?</p><p>Veronika had accepted her, taken her in but adoption into one of the most powerful families of the Soviet Union was a bit of a stretch for a Polish girl. Veronika and Sveta had been silently rebelling for years and Zhanna's presence would have been their pièce de résistance. A Pole in the home of a man who's work to slaughter and stamp out every remaining taint from his country was well known. A Jew under the nose of Soviet Russia, who's leaders had never been one for religion or moral ties. Zhanna was their little resistance and had been Veronika's downfall.</p><p>And how had she repaid her?</p><p>Zhanna had passed the locked door, the taste of stolen vodka still on her lips. She had heard the gunshot. It rang in her ears, an echo. And she had run away.</p><p>Bitter taste in her mouth, the echo of the gunshot, and the closed door. Zhanna had run away. She always ran away.</p><p>And now, she had to pay the Samsonovs back. That debt, written on the sheets with blood and rebellion. That was her life jacket in this midst of this storm of a war.</p><p>"You heading back home to Russia?" Malarkey asked.</p><p>"That's the plan." Zhanna said. Oh her plan. To get Sveta home, no matter the cost, was a receipt of her debt. Zhanna would pay it in full and then find her family. Once she had Agata and Casmir, their hands in her own, Zhanna would find safety elsewhere.</p><p>Skip's hand grabbed the tie to her life jacket and led her through the crowd of men and bunks that made up the belly of the ship. It stunk of sweat, smoke and seawater. Zhanna's nose wrinkled as they pushed their way past Dog and Fox company towards familiar faces.</p><p>"Must be nice to know where you are going," Malarkey said, wryly. He allowed a comrade to deal him into a game of cards while Skip continued on his path.</p><p>"Right now, some lucky bastard's headed for the South Pacific," Skip said, pushing Gordon and Sisk out of the way. "He'll get billeted on some tropical island, sitting under a palm tree with six naked native girls, helping him cut up coconuts, so he can hand feed them to the flamingos."</p><p>Zhanna wasn't sure if that was a thing to envy but the men seemed to think so. She pushed her way through the crowd, past Perconte and Sisk, following Skip to his rack, where the paratrooper offered her a hand. With his assistance, she jumped to sit on the thin cotton sheet that was stretched between the metal frame, a prayer being the only real support. There were hundreds of soldiers, all from different platoons, companies and battalions jammed into the belly of this ship. It made her skin crawl and tiny droplets of sweat bead on her forehead, that had nothing to do with the heat. There were so many of them.</p><p>Skip didn't seem to pinpoint the cause of her sudden wide eyed gaze and fitful glances but he did offer a small smile, as if the motion would cease her worry and soothe all fears. It didn't, not entirely. But it did help.</p><p>Zhanna hadn't thought the men of Easy would be so willing to offer a hand to her, in more ways than one. And yet, here she was, deep in the jungle of bunks, being treated with almost the same camaraderie that they had for each other. She still didn't have Sveta.</p><p>"What if we don't get to Europe?" Gordon, who's nickname "Smokey" confused Zhanna to this day, asked. "What if they send us to North Africa?"</p><p>"My brother's in North Africa, he says it's hot," Guarnere, loud and from the city of Philadelphia, where it seemed a large</p><p>"Really? It's hot in Africa?" Malarkey dead panned, lowering his newspaper, stolen from an empty bunk, to glance at Zhanna. She managed a small snort of laughter, an exhale of amusement. "What are you gonna say next? It's cold in Russia?"</p><p>"Point is, it don't matter where we go. Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself and the fella next to you." Guarnere looked over at Zhanna who had been watching with wide eyes.</p><p>He didn't add "or woman," or make any adjustments to the exclusion of his remark. Did the men think she wouldn't fight for them? She knew the road to trust was a long one and couldn't remember the last time she had walked it, but Zhanna would have hoped that at least some assurance in her ability was due.</p><p>"Hey, long as he's a Paratrooper," Toye said, fiddling with his switchblade. The rasp of steel sent shivers down Zhanna's spine, despite the clamor of men's voices and she was grateful for the wings that were threaded through the silver chain, hanging close. Her ticket home and the last piece of home.</p><p>"Oh, yeah? What if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?"</p><p>"If I'm next to Sobel in combat, I'm moving on down the line," Toye snapped the switchblade again, to "Hook up with some other officer, like Heyliger or Winters,"</p><p>"I like Winters, he's a good man," Guarnere paused. "But when the bullets start flying, I don't know if I want a Quaker doing my fighting for me."</p><p>Sveta had excelled at laying secondary meanings beneath her words and Zhanna had learned to discern the truth through her heavily shrouded mystery. Guarnere was a novice at this skill. He thought the slight jab at Winters would be taken as just that. A slight jab. But Zhanna knew, to her trained eye, that he was prodding her and Sveta too.</p><p>"He ain't Catholic," Guarnere said, as if that explained it. "Now Sobel, that prick's a son of Abraham,"</p><p>"He's what?" Liebgott had been listening in half interest but now rested his elbow against his knees, cigarette in hand. Fully alert and ready to do what Zhanna had learned to expect from him: instigation.</p><p>"He's a Jew." It was hotter than the sun's fiery surface in the bowels of this ship but Zhanna's fingers went numb. Maybe it was her tight grip on the front of her life jacket, the only thing that could hold her afloat when things came tumbling down. Like they always did. Jew.</p><p>"Jew," from Zhanna's mouth had been comforting and familiar, a piece of her family and her home. She had relied on the cool silver necklace and the promise of protection. It was a good thing.</p><p>"Jew," From Guarnere's mouth was harsh and disgusted, a curse or a less than desirable taste. Scum. Like the Soviets and Germans said. There was no protection that her little star could offer from the slap to her jaw his words had delivered.</p><p>Zhanna didn't have a temper to lose. But Liebgott did.</p><p>"Oh, fuck. I'm a Jew." His voice was cautionary, promising a boiling temper that Zhanna could see behind his eyes. He pushed himself towards Guarnere, a presence larger than the actual stature he possessed.</p><p>"Congratulations. Get your nose outta my face." Guarnere was stubborn. Like a bull, he didn't see anything but the path in front of him and the only solution in his mind was to plow through it with brute strength.</p><p>The first blow was to Liebgott's chest and before another could land, Zhanna had leapt to her feet and ran to the men. She wasn't sure what she hoped to accomplish. She wasn't sure what her body was doing. But being thrown backwards for the second time wasn't her plan.</p><p>The slander of Jews had hurt equally to the pain of Guarnere's arm colliding with Zhanna's head. Sharp, stabbing pain exploded across her face and her vision went blurry as she hit the floor, the wind knocked out of her.</p><p>"Break it up!" Bodies rushed past her, while she lay weighless on the floor, to break up the fight when she had failed. There were the muffled sounds of fists hitting fabric until the sounds of Easy Company overpowered it all. Shouts, and curses richoteted like shrapnel in</p><p>"Hey! HEY!" Lipton's voice was lifted above the rest, shattering the pandemonium with his cool authority. "Lieutenant? Are you alright?"</p><p>She still couldn't see but Zhanna supposed she was alright. The flesh along her jaw was still stinging but she was still conscious. Slowly Zhanna sat up, her head spinning but she was still conscious. She was alright.</p><p>"Jesus, look at the state of her," Zhanna could hear Skip's voice dimly through ringing ears. She was glad she couldn't see herself. Her jaw was tender under the exploration of her fingertips and she winced.</p><p>"God, that's turning purple already!" Someone shouted.</p><p>"Look what you did to the kid, Guarno," Skip said, pulling Zhanna up from the floor and closer to his side. "Jesus Christ."</p><p>"I'd like to find Sveta now," Zhanna said, thickly, pain flaring red hot on her face. Guarnere said nothing in his defense and she wanted to leave. She should have been with Sveta. She shouldn't have been in the bowels of this ship and Zhanna shouldn't have tried to be one of the men, to stop that fight. The blow to her face was payment for trying to be something that she wasn't: American.</p><p>"She's in the officers' quarters," Lipton said.</p><p>Zhanna stumbled toward him, through blurry eyes, gripping Skip's arm for balance. "Take me there."</p><p>Ascending the stairs was difficult and the walk to the officer's quarters was a slow one, thick with tension and anxiety, punctuated by the now dull throb and swelling on Zhanna's face. The door opened before Zhanna could reach for the knob, and through heavily-lidded eyes, she saw Sveta's dark ones staring back at her.</p><p>She didn't say anything but Sveta's eyes had the ability to speak without words. Brown but almost black in color, almost like the ones that had watched Casimir and Agata from the shadows. These eyes had burned through many Soviet politicians and had flickered with the anger and fury that Zhanna knew was ready to strike at a moment's notice.</p><p>It would never be at her. Sveta had never loosed her fire and flood upon Zhanna. It would be in her defense and Sveta was ready to burn through the RMS Samaria with all the Samsonov fury and power. Power that Zhanna could admire from afar but never possess. A power that left Zhanna reliant and indebted to her spotter and her friend.</p><p><em>"Go inside,"</em> Sveta said with a carefully contained fire. <em>"I'll find a medic for you."</em></p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. ...the kids cried out...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back with our regularly scheduled update! If you didn't read the extra Birthday special update yesterday (October 16) then make sure you click one chapter back and read that first. That one and this Sveta one are directly connected. Once you're sure you've read Zhanna's first Samaria chapter, keep on going with this one! We're glad to have you on board!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>Sveta stood silent. She looked at Zhanna, face turning from red to purple to a gruesome yellow in a few spots. Heat filled her body. <em>"Go inside,"</em> she finally said, falling into Russian. <em>"I'll find a medic for you."</em></p><p>Then it was just her and the enlisted. As the door clicked, she turned on Lipton. She didn't even try to hide her fury. She let them see it. Let them be scared. It would only make her job easier.</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>Lipton hesitated. With a quick glance at Muck, he tried to explain. "Lieutenant Casmirovna got caught up in a fight between Sergeant Guarnere and Corporal Liebgott."</p><p>Sveta felt herself trembling. Gripping her fists tighter, she forced it down. She had to control it. At least, she had to control it for now. "Why was she there?"</p><p>"She got lost, ma'am," Muck said. He gestured back down the hall, where the door to the deck sat. "Me and Private Malarkey took her to the platoon. To keep her from getting more lost."</p><p>"Who hit her?" They didn't answer. Sveta took a small step forward. "Who hit her," she repeated, putting emphasis on each word. "That's an order."</p><p>"Sergeant Guarnere, ma'am," Lipton supplied.</p><p>Guarnere. That jackass. Sveta bit her cheek. Then she looked down the hall. She could taste the blood in her mouth as it took all her practice not to say more. Guarnere. With a nod, Sveta turned back to them. "You're dismissed."</p><p>They left without saying more. Neither saluted, but she didn't expect it. They were men. American men. After nearly a year dealing with them in training, she had come to tolerate them, even respect them, but not like them. Now they'd lost even that. Especially Sergeant Guarnere.</p><p>If the enlisted thought they had seen what she was capable of, they were sorely mistaken. The name Samsonov meant something to the American Brass. It meant something to the Soviets. She didn't have any power to change her circumstances, but in those circumstances, she could wield her name as a weapon.</p><p>After the enlisted disappeared, she took a few breaths. At her hip she felt the familiar weight of her side-arm. Sveta had it on her, always. Her heart pounded in her chest. Guarnere. Fists weren't the only weapon. Sveta had been a soldier longer than these boys and she'd been fighting in the Soviet political sphere for longer than some of them had known what a weapon was.</p><p>Sveta knew fear. She'd seen it in the faces of the women around Stalin for years. She'd seen it in her own face since 1935. And Sveta made it her mission to see it in Guarnere's face before the end of the day.</p><p>"Private!" She called out to a runner who passed by in the hall. When he turned, slightly startled, she looked him over. Tall, dark haired, blue eyed. A bit underfed. Sveta nodded to him. "Find Lieutenant Winters or Lieutenant Welsh. Tell them Lieutenant Casmirovna requires medical attention, that she's in our quarters. Immediately."</p><p>"Yes- Yes ma'am."</p><p>Fear. Sveta watched him go. Fear could be seen in the whole body. Eyes that widened, shoulders that hunched a bit inwards, tight. Mouth a bit open, or jaw a bit clenched. Rubbing palms on clothes. That was fear. Fear wasn't abstract. It was physical.</p><p>Her boots slammed against the wooden deck as she passed out through the door. The murmur of American voices filled the air. She looked around. American men in American uniforms. God, Sveta hated them. Their jeers had ended months ago. But they had crossed a line, and it would be the last time that ever happened.</p><p>It didn't take long for her to find 2nd Battalion. They'd bunked together down in the ship's belly. But she didn't need all of 2nd Platoon. She needed Guarnere, alone. Years of playing in the shadows of dangerous men gave her an edge. She stuck to the corners. Smiles, gentle breaths, pushing loose hairs behind her ear. The men soon forgot about her as they took their meal in a small mess hall.</p><p>Sveta lingered by a door to a further portion of the ship where the men had to pass. It didn't take long for her to find Guarnere. He sported a few red marks on his neck, chatting and laughing with Sergeant Luz and Corporal Toye. She followed them. Stick to the shadows.</p><p>Her fists clenched as she watched him. Zhanna's bruised face played in her mind like some sick newsreel. As they went to turn a corner, she called out to them. "Sergeant Guarnere!"</p><p>All three spun around. Easy had taken their dinner late. Most men had gone to sleep, and the hallways were fairly empty. They stood about five feet from an exit to the deck. Unlit cigarettes already lay in their hands. Sveta had to suppress a growl.</p><p>"Lieutenant?" he asked.</p><p>Sveta narrowed her eyes and walked up to them. She stood about their height. They couldn't look down on her, not here, not now, not physically. Her hands cramped from how tight she held them. Turning to the other two, she smiled. "You're dismissed."</p><p>Toye tried to protest. "Listen, Lieutenant, earlier-"</p><p>"That wasn't a request, Corporal." Sveta held his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to harden. She could play this game. Games were her life. She had to play them to stay alive.</p><p>Luz just scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. But he turned, gesturing to the door. He and Toye left. She turned back to Guarnere. His jaw was set. In the low, artificial light of the hallway, the red hand marks on his collarbone seemed to burn. His dark eyes watched her closely.</p><p>"It came to my attention that there was a disagreement below decks about an hour ago, Sergeant." Not a question, but she let her tone treat it as such.</p><p>"Yes, ma'am," he replied.</p><p>Sveta nodded. "You and Corporal Liebgott. What were you fighting over?"</p><p>"Nothing important."</p><p>"Nothing important," she echoed. Sveta took a step forward. He already stood near the wall. "Nothing important. So you're telling me you struck a superior officer over nothing important, Sergeant. Is that what you're saying?"</p><p>His lips parted in a bit of a sneer. Sveta didn't give way. She watched as his shoulders tightened and he drew himself up. "She wasn't part of the fight, Lieutenant. Just got caught up in it."</p><p>Sveta let the silence extend. He squirmed a bit as she refused to break eye contact. Guarnere couldn't have been used to this. She found it entertaining. Sveta smiled. "Sergeant, you're very lucky. You know why?"</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"You met me here, and not in Russia." Sveta stepped forward again. Relaxing her shoulders, she did her best to sound unconcerned. But her right hand sat on the hilt of her side-arm, and he glanced at it. "In Russia, we would not even be having this conversation. You would just disappear."</p><p>"Christ." He laughed in disbelief under his breath. "You threatenin' me, Lieutenant?"</p><p>"I don't threaten, Sergeant. You mean nothing to this army," she told him. "I, on the other hand, am the daughter of Alexander Samsonov. I mean everything."</p><p>A lie, but not a difficult one to sell. Sveta meant everything to her father. She knew it. Or that's what he believed. Another lie, but a lie he told himself. Everyone had those little lies. Guarnere lied to himself all the time, lied that he was any better than the scum of the earth.</p><p>She took another step forward. Guarnere's back touched the wall as he glanced down at her pistol in its holster. His eyes widened.</p><p>"Goddamn broad, you're fuckin' crazy!"</p><p>"You lay one more finger on Lieutenant Casmirovna and I'll see you lose it."</p><p>The doors to the outside burst open. Sveta whipped around, the cool air off the sea hitting her in the face. Guarnere wasted no time in moving away from her. Toye, Luz, Talbert, Liebgott, Perconte, and Grant came rushing inside. Sveta stepped back.</p><p>"Jesus fucking Christ," Guarnere snapped again. "Fucking Commie bitch."</p><p>"You good, Guarno?" Toye asked.</p><p>They all eyed her. Sveta looked at each of them as they took up positions around Guarnere. Her throat clenched. She couldn't take all of them. They had her outnumbered. If they decided to retaliate-</p><p>"What's going on here, Lieutenant?"</p><p>Sveta turned around, nearly jumping out of her skin as Speirs wandered up. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. They'd not spoken much since he'd nearly broken her rib at the beginning of the summer. Just passing conversations.</p><p>"I've got it handled," she lied.</p><p>He shrugged, looking at the men silently. They squirmed under his glare. Sveta narrowed her eyes at them. She let her gaze linger on Guarnere.</p><p>"You're dismissed," she said.</p><p>They didn't waste time. Sveta's gaze lingered on the dark, heavy doors as they slammed shut. She'd need to check on them later.</p><p>"You want a cigarette, Lieutenant?"</p><p>Sveta turned back to Speirs. He had his box of Lucky Strikes out, open. Her jaw clenched. What she really wanted was a drink. And maybe some food. But she nodded anyway. She dug her fingers into the pack and pulled one out.</p><p>Glancing up at the faded 'No Smoking' sign on the hallway, she frowned. "I suppose I should take this outside," she muttered. Sveta didn't wait for Speirs before going on deck. But he followed, the door closing fast behind him. She lit her cigarette.</p><p>"So, what in Christ's name was that all about?" he asked.</p><p>Sveta looked at him. In the dark, it was hard to read his expression. "A mild disagreement."</p><p>Speirs scoffed. "Right." He stuck his cigarette back in his mouth and looked around. A few lamps cast small pools of light on deck, but most of it stayed hidden. "Nixon and Winters were looking for you."</p><p>"Oh?" She turned to him again.</p><p>"Somethin' about your friend," he explained. "Might wanna find them, Lieutenant."</p><p>Sveta nodded. She finished off what she wanted of the cigarette before walking to the rail and dropping it into the ocean. "Thank you for the cigarette, Lieutenant."</p><p>He just nodded in return. Before turning away, she looked at him as he moved into the light. Only he and Welsh had been unperturbed by her existence, it seemed. Welsh wanted to know about her, which got annoying. The lack of concern from Speirs felt refreshing.</p><p>Sveta wondered what he was hiding. She nodded to him and went to the Officers' quarters. Nixon and Winters wanted to see her. She wanted to see them, too. She had unfinished business. And maybe Nixon would part with some alcohol. If not, she'd just find Welsh. He had a stash too. Maybe he could spare some.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. ...dreams that are mine...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>September 16th 1943</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We were only in America for a few months, though it felt much much longer. Sveta is finding it hard to fit in with the paratroopers. I’m finding it hard, still. They have accepted us but their trust hasn’t been earned yet. Sveta isn’t helping. She lashes out. She scared one of the enlisted, a sergeant named Guarnere. Sveta did it for me. She does a lot for me. </em>
</p>
<p>The wind on the deck flipped the pages of her journal and Zhanna wondered if she should retreat to the narrow berth that had been given to her. But there was something freeing in the brisk breeze, pushing her hair back from the nape of her neck and giving some cool relief to the bruise on her jaw. </p>
<p>The medics had iced it while Sveta stalked her prey and while some of the swelling had gone down, Zhanna still had an assortment of colors that drew the eyes of passersby. At dinner, Zhanna had kept her head down, but Winters and Nixon’s second glances had burned into her mind. Out here, on the deck of the Samaria, where a storm seemed to be brewing on the horizon, Zhanna was allowed to be alone. To pull the hair back from her cheek, and let her face touch the sun. Living in shadows had left her skin pale and her blood chilled.</p>
<p>
  <em>We have our wings and our destination is unknown. The men said we could go to North Africa or Italy. I don’t need to go to Africa. I don’t need to go to Italy. I need to get Sveta to Russia. And I need to get to you. </em>
</p>
<p>Zhanna paused, her pencil frozen over the page. Agata’s voice echoed in her mind. ““Do not push the river, it will flow by itself." </p>
<p>
  <em>Sometimes I forget you aren’t here. I can hear your voice, and see you out of the corner of my eye. I think the necklace keeps you close. I still wear it. Of course I still wear it. </em>
</p>
<p> “Perelko, we’ll be back,” Agata had said, tracing a hand over Zhanna’s braid. She had longer hair then. </p>
<p>“Can’t I go with you?” Zhanna had begged. “Please can I go with you.” </p>
<p> “We need to go,” </p>
<p>They had to go. They had to leave. So, all Zhanna had left of her parents was that final memory and the little silver star that Agata had clasped around her neck, the only piece of Poland that her mother had left.</p>
<p>“Do not push the river, it will flow by itself."  Her mother had grown up in the valley of the Chodelka, passing the behavior of the river onto her daughter through long walks on the banks of the Volga in Stalingrad. Rivers were powerful, though not as untamed as the ocean that writhed and tossed with a fervor below Zhanna. Rivers were unrestrained. </p>
<p>Rivers didn't follow directions. Rivers didn't surrender to human will. They flowed, like life, sweeping away what it wished and leaving behind scattered remains. The rivers of life had pushed the Polyakovs to Stalingrad, away from home and family, isolating them in the rapidly reddening country. </p>
<p>They had been overworked, underfed and Zhanna had never met her older brother, who had wasted away in the frigid winters. But Agata and Casimir hadn't frozen. They had let the river of life keep pushing them, with a grace and acceptance that had been drilled deep into Zhanna's mind. </p>
<p>Life wasn't fair but Zhanna had her family. Yes, they didn't eat that night but she had had a good breakfast. Yes, Zhanna and Agata had to keep their heads down when leaving the house but they could still practice Shabbat at home. Yes, Casimir was overworked in that factory and his body was slowly breaking down but they had money and a roof over their heads.  Life wasn't fair but they were okay. </p>
<p>That's just how the river flowed and it would keep flowing, no matter their wishes. Yes, Zhanna was thousands of miles from home and her final memory of her parents was from years before but she had Sveta and she had those wings. The wings that had offered her flight back home. Yes, life wasn't fair but she was alive and because of her, many weren't so lucky. </p>
<p><br/>The river was pushing her and Zhanna could keep floating, keep swimming. She was alright.</p>
<p>
  <em> I have my rifle, I have my necklace, I have Sveta, and I know that I will make it home. I’m not pushing this river. I am trusting that it will flow and I with it. Life isn’t fair but that doesn’t mean I won’t make it home. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Home isn’t Russia or Stalingrad. It’s with you, Mama. You and Papa. And right now, it’s with Sveta. I need to make it home. These men don’t like me, because I’m Russian. I know what that feels like but Sveta doesn’t know how to take it. But…never mind. I’ll make it home. I’ll make it back to you. </em>
</p>
<p> The pages of her journal were quickly filling up but Zhanna saw the approaching completion of this ritual as a sign. She would be going home soon. She would give Agata that journal. Twisting the silver Star of David around her pinky, Zhanna’s hand brushed the bruise on her jaw. Jew. Pole. Whatever she was, she was going home. Even if she had to freeze the river of life to get there. </p>
<p> </p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. ...my mother said...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>A month into their stay in Aldbourne, and Sveta had no more love for the enlisted than she had on the Samaria. It pained her to admit that Guarnere held the power within the platoons. Those Staff Sergeant stripes meant more to them than her Lieutenant bar. Their snide comments returned in full force, focused within the upper ranks of enlisted.</p><p>What Guarnere started, the others continued. Luz had a standing bet going on how long it would take before she shot one of them. Martin and Randleman, the only men she had developed a real rapport with, stopped talking to her. And her scolding of Guarnere had apparently mended his relationship with Liebgott, so that they worked to undermine her in tandem.</p><p>So she just stopped talking to them. Sveta had Zhanna, at least. She and Zhanna had been alone against the world for half a decade. Nothing would separate that. Nothing.</p><p>It bothered her only a little that the men had the exact opposite reaction to Zhanna. Sveta vaguely wondered if it was because she was small, and stayed quiet, and that was easier for them to stomach. Whatever the reason, the mortar squad of Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala included her more during training. They spoke to her freely, willingly.</p><p>She and Zhanna had been billeted in a small house near to the other officers of Easy Company. The Connors were an older couple with no children. Mrs. Jane Connors liked to knit and play piano. Mr. Robert Connors spent his days cycling around Aldbourne, sometimes helping with training by acting as an enemy to be captured. They hadn't objected to housing the two Russians. Even so, Sveta tried to stay out of the house as much as possible.</p><p>When Zhanna had told her that Muck had invited her to join the men at the pub that night, Sveta had been speechless. But she had nodded and smiled. And even though she'd seemed a bit concerned, Zhanna had gone with them.</p><p>"Are you going anywhere tonight?" Mrs. Connors asked.</p><p>Sveta had wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a small green apple from the counter. Her hostess sat at the table. In her hands, a copy of the local paper provided some meager entertainment. "I have a meeting," she lied.</p><p>"This late?" Mrs. Connors looked up. She placed the paper down on the red and white tablecloth. "They certainly are working you hard, my dear."</p><p>Sveta shrugged. "Wars don't win themselves."</p><p>"You don't need to tell me twice," she agreed. "It took everyone to win the Great War."</p><p>Just nodding in response, Sveta took another bite of her apple. She moved down the hall to the door. Her favorite spot to get out of the house and away from the Army was a small field not too far away. But as she went to open the door, a knock sounded.</p><p>Sveta pulled it open. To her surprise, Welsh, Nixon, and Winters stood there, just as surprised to see her answer so quickly. The officers had been her only form of contact outside of Zhanna that didn't make her want to punch a wall. She didn't like them. But she definitely liked them more than the enlisted.</p><p>"What do you want?" Sveta asked.</p><p>"We're hitting the pub," Welsh explained. "Want to come?"</p><p>For a moment, Sveta just stared at him, and then to Nixon and Winters. The smirk on the former's face made her narrow her eyes. He found it all funny, clearly, how confused she was. So she turned to Winters. "Winters, you don't drink."</p><p>"No," He agreed. As the others laughed, he just shook his head. "But I could use a break."</p><p>Right. Sveta still didn't answer. There had to be a ploy here. Before she could say anything further, Welsh jumped back in.</p><p>"Look, we know Casmirovna's out for the evening, so we thought we'd see if you wanted to join," he told her. "Besides, I'm tired of looking at these two every damn day."</p><p>Sveta had to suppress a chuckle. But she knew he was telling the truth. How? Sveta didn't know. Maybe wishful thinking. But after a year of jeers and taunts, she decided to step forward.</p><p>Her mom had always told her to be careful of her words. Watch out for prying ears and eyes, Sveta. But it went both ways. Allies were important. Nixon, he wasn't one. But Welsh, maybe he was, with his gap-toothed grin and short stature and blunt words. Winters she still couldn't decide on. He was too close with Nixon for her liking.</p><p>"Fine," Sveta said. Stepping out of the house, she pulled the door closed. The sun had already gone down hours ago, replaced by a slightly cloudy evening. "Lead the way, Lieutenants."</p><p>Sveta walked mostly in silence, listening to Nixon and Winters and Welsh chat. A few groups of enlisted roamed the streets as well, often accompanied by young women with pretty white smiles and cotton dresses. Aldbourne had a simplicity that Sveta had never known. Even in the war, they tried to stay positive.</p><p>She hoped Zhanna was having a good time. As she approached the pub with the other officers, she couldn't help the smile that graced her face thinking how Zhanna could out drink the men. They were in for a surprise, no doubt. Long winters and hard times meant both she and Zhanna could hold their liqueur.</p><p>The pub bustled with activity. Some people played darts, others ran card games at pale wooden tables. The smell of alcohol, grease, and sweat filled her nose. Sveta had to suppress a gag. But she dutifully followed the other three to an open table in the corner.</p><p>Sveta took the chair in the back, up against the wall. She raked the crowd with her gaze. Mostly Americans, their paratrooper badges and brown dress uniforms made them easy to identify. Seven women sat or stood throughout as well, each with a man on either arm. At the bar, a trio of older men sat leaning over shot glasses.</p><p>"Hey, Svetlana, what do you want?"</p><p>Welsh's voice broke her concentration. He stood on the outside of their circle table. Sveta took a deep breath and sat back, relaxing her shoulders. "Surprise me. I can handle any drink you bring, Welsh."</p><p>"Fighting words," Nixon joked. He had the seat to her right. As Welsh disappeared through the crowd to go grab drinks, he turned to her. "How's your host family?"</p><p>"Fine," she said. With a bit of a shrug, Sveta looked at him. "Not much about them to tell. Mr. Connors fought in the first war. Mrs. Connors enjoys her quiet time."</p><p>Sveta's mom told her to smile. That's what men expected, especially in politics and war. Not just of the women, but other men too. Don't give away your real intentions. Sort of like poker. She'd seen the men playing it before, but had never tried her hand.</p><p>"How about you two?" She smiled this time. "I heard you and Welsh have a place together, Winters?"</p><p>He nodded back. "Yeah. It's nice. Aldbourne's a nice change of pace," he added. "Less noise, even with the war."</p><p>"Nixon?"</p><p>As he started chatting about the place he'd found, Sveta tuned him out. He had money, or his family did. That much she already knew. He liked to drink. She knew that too, having noticed the ever present bottles of Vat 69 in his office in Battalion HQ. So instead she just nodded along, pretending to be enraptured by his tales of his escapades in Aldbourne.</p><p>"Here we go." Welsh reappeared, dropping three glasses onto the table. Then he set down a large bottle of scotch. "Hope it doesn't disappoint."</p><p>"Harry, anything you can afford will disappoint," Nixon teased. But he wasted no time in pouring himself a glass. He turned to Sveta next. "Lieutenant?"</p><p>She nodded. "Please."</p><p>"Sorry, Dick, didn't have enough hands to get you a water glass," Welsh said. Then he took the filled shot glass Nixon offered him.</p><p>Winters just scoffed under his breath at Welsh's smirk. He pushed out his chair and went to find his own refreshments. As he faded into the crowd, Sveta took a drink.</p><p>"How's your fiancé doing, Welsh?" Sveta asked, turning to him on her left. With another smile, she let her body relax even more. Though she kept half her focus on the surrounding crowd, the rest she saved for her companions. "Is she enjoying herself?"</p><p>"Kitty's great," he assured her. "She's nannying for a neighbor right now. Says the kids are crazy." He smirked. "It's perfect. She'll fit right in."</p><p>"Anyone waiting back in Russia for you, Lieutenant?" Nixon asked.</p><p>Sveta looked at him. That was a complicated question. She didn't know of anyone, but her father had been talking of finding her a husband even before she joined the snipers. As she responded, Winters rejoined them. "Russia's a busy place, right now. No one's thinking of marriage, just survival." Then she turned it on him. "How about you?"</p><p>"Mrs. Kathy Nixon," he told her.</p><p>The way his smile faded and shoulders hunched, she didn't need him to go on. Either she was ill and it made him upset to think about, or he simply didn't want to be reminded of the marriage. He kept up his smile though, and went on to talk about Katherine Page, graduate of Stanford and current head of the Lewis Nixon household. She guessed it to be the latter answer, then.</p><p>She continued to sip on her alcohol. With each passing moment, the three men at the table slowly forgot about her and turned to their own discussions. Nixon muttered on about the incompetence of the Army. Welsh added his bitter two cents about Sobel. Winters just tried to keep them both reined in.</p><p>About an hour later, the questions finally turned back to Sveta. The alcohol warmed her body. Every so often she had to remind herself that she'd been drinking, and that she needed to be doubly careful of her tongue. Her mother had drilled that into her too. In Russia, vodka flowed from veins like blood, especially in the winter. But it made you vulnerable.</p><p>"When this all ends, what are your plans?" Welsh asked her.</p><p>Sveta sat up a bit straighter. "Russia's my home, Lieutenant." Her expression softened a bit. "I miss the Volga River, and the Valdai Hills. I did some training there, north of Smolensk. It's beautiful. If there is a god, the Motherland is his masterpiece."</p><p>"Isn't it cold, though," Nixon protested.</p><p>Sveta smiled. "Lieutenant, cold doesn't bother me. If you could see Russia away from the cities, you'd understand."</p><p>She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the pine trees lit by a setting sun. She recalled the source of the Volga, brilliant and clear. That was the Russia she loved. That was the Motherland Sveta fought for. Not the fetid cities, full of the stench of death and false promises.</p><p>Her mom promised that one day, they'd get away from the cities. But then she'd pulled the trigger on the Korovin pistol and been buried six feet under, roses on her grave. Sveta opened her eyes. She could hear the screams of the children in Rostov-on-Don again. She could hear her mother's sobs. She could see the red blood staining the mattress.</p><p>"Well, it's been a lovely evening," Sveta told them. Her hands shook where they sat in her lap, obscured by the table. "Thank you for the invitation. But, I really must be going."</p><p>"Do you want someone to walk you back?" Winters offered.</p><p>But she just shook her head, standing up from the table. Her back touched the wall as she slid the wooden chair back in. "I'm fine, Lieutenant. Good night."</p><p>She didn't spare them a second glance, but she took it slow so as not to draw attention. The bar had filled even more. When she opened the door to the outside air, she took a deep breath. Much better than the pub. She looked right down the cobbled street. A few lamps lit the way, and she set off.</p><p>Just like before, there were a few groups of enlisted hanging about. Some were British forces as well, likely on leave. Most didn't spare her a second glance. They were too preoccupied with drinks and smokes.</p><p>As she hit the next street over, someone called out to her. She turned at the British accent. A man not much older than herself, with well trimmed dark hair, stood on the other side of the street below a lamp. By the way he swayed, she guessed he'd been drinking. As she made eye contact, he grinned and moved across to join her.</p><p>"Ey, dollface," he commented. "Come here often?"</p><p>"Out of my way," Sveta ordered. He was a soldier; he had to take orders.</p><p>But the man just laughed. He got too close, and Sveta took a step back. Her hand went to her hip. Sveta froze. No side-arm.</p><p>"Smile for me," he added. "Come on, doll."</p><p>She pushed past him. When his hand grabbed her arm to pull her around, Sveta shouted. But he wasted no time in punching her in the face, and Sveta couldn't focus. She tasted blood. Her ears rang. Sveta threw her hands up on instinct to protect her face from another blow.</p><p>He tried to grab her again, scratching her face with his nails. Sveta kicked out, catching his knee. His pained cry echoed around them, and she backed up, trying to see past the blood trickling from her brow. He hit the ground, passed out.</p><p>Panting, Sveta felt blood rush to her head. Her entire body screamed in pain, and anger, and bitterness. When she heard the pounding of boots, Sveta looked up and took a step back. Of course it would be them. Easy Company.</p><p>Guarnere. Toye. Liebgott. Grant. Talbert. Luz. Of course. It had to be them, not someone else. It couldn't have been anyone else in the entire fucking universe. That would've been too easy. Too simple. As they came up to her, Sveta struggling to catch her breath, they paused.</p><p>Sveta gritted her teeth. All warnings to stay silent that she'd been given for a decade evaporated. She'd had enough.</p><p>"Here to finish it off?" None of them responded, so she scoffed again, trying to wipe the blood that was still dripping over her eye. Pain surged through her, and she flinched back. "Go ahead. Punch me, too. You know you want to," she snapped. "Just a fucking Russian broad, right?" She added a few colorful Russian curses.</p><p>None of them spoke. Talbert and Luz shifted where they stood though, as Liebgott knelt by the passed out British soldier and checked to see if he was breathing. She hoped he wasn't. Her face still ached. The alcohol in her system made her a bit sick with the fight.</p><p>"Deal with him," she muttered. Sveta moved off.</p><p>"Where are you going, Lieutenant?" Toye asked.</p><p>Spinning back to him, her head ached. Sveta nearly growled. "To get some ice for my face. Is that alright with you, Corporal?"</p><p>"Spina's on duty tonight," Talbert supplied. He moved over to her. "If you want the docs to take a look."</p><p>Sveta nearly laughed again. But she knew it would be a bad idea not to go get it looked at, and of the enlisted, Sveta disliked the medics least. So she nodded. As Liebgott and Grant got her attacker to his feet and Toye and Guarnere stood back, Sveta turned to Luz and Talbert. "Show me the aid station."</p><p>They walked in silence. Luz handed Sveta a handkerchief, and she tried to stave off the bleeding as they went. They hadn't gone far, only a few streets, when she heard laughter. Familiar laughter.</p><p>Zhanna, Muck, and Penkala trailed along the streets. Zhanna had been drinking. She smiled, and chuckled once in a while, and her gait was off. More spring in her step. Sveta looked at her in concern.</p><p>"Sveta!" Zhanna caught sight of her at the same time. She hurried over. "The bars here, they don't have <em>good vodka. But they have good whisky!"</em></p><p>Shit. It took Sveta longer than it probably should've for her to piece together the broken English and Russian she used. Some words Sveta couldn't even recognize as anything other than Polish words.</p><p>"Lieutenant!" Muck looked at her in surprise.</p><p>She grimaced, removing the stained cloth from her face. Likely the bruising had started already. She glanced to his left and saw Penkala staring at her.</p><p>"What happened to your face?" he asked. He trailed off at the end of his questions, looking beyond Sveta.</p><p>She turned around to find Luz and Talbert grimacing. Then she looked back at Penkala. "British soldiers are even less mannered than Americans," she muttered. "What are you two doing?"</p><p>"Walking the Lieutenant home, ma'am," Muck told her. "She enjoyed herself tonight, though."</p><p>"So I see," Sveta said. She turned to Zhanna, who was singing to herself. <em>"Zhanna, you should stop speaking Polish."</em></p><p>"What language is that?" Muck asked. "She's been lapsing into that for the past twenty minutes!"</p><p>Sveta hesitated. "Could be a dialect of Russian I'm unfamiliar with," she lied. They bought it. "Muck, make sure she gets back to our billet. Mrs. Connors can take care of her from there."</p><p>"Sure."</p><p><em>"Zhanna, stop speaking Polish,"</em> Sveta tried again.</p><p>"Why?" she asked. "It is good language!"</p><p>Giving up, Sveta just shrugged. Her head ached. Her eyes stung. The blood had mostly stopped, but now it caked down her skin and itched. She couldn't deal with a drunk Zhanna right then. She had to trust the men that Zhanna had placed her trust in.</p><p>Muck and Penkala continued to laugh at whatever Zhanna was saying while they meandered down the street the other way. Sveta watched them. Then she turned back to Luz and Talbert. "Is it far?"</p><p>Talbert shook his head. "No."</p><p>Luz cracked a smile around his cigarette. Gesturing back at the other three, he laughed. "She's having fun."</p><p>"Yes." Sveta nodded. Zhanna had to be careful, though. She had to watch herself. "She is."</p><p>She left it at that. Talbert and Luz started chatting more, voices low, broken by the occasional snicker. By the time they reached the building that had been turned into a makeshift medic station, Sveta was about ready to cry. Her face hurt, her anger wanted to explode. But she just followed them inside the farmhouse.</p><p>"Hey, Doc, you in here?" Luz called.</p><p>Spina came around from the back, shoulders hunched and frowning. Dark circles under his eyes spoke to his exhaustion. "Jesus, what the hell happened to you?" he asked. Spina put down the clipboard he'd been holding and moved to them.</p><p>"Some British jackass jumped her," Talbert told him. "Grant and Lieb are taking care of him."</p><p>Sveta turned back to Talbert. The anger in his voice caught her off guard. But she nodded back to him and then turned to Spina. "It looks worse than it is."</p><p>"Yeah? And who told you that? A doctor?" He snorted. "Sit down. I'll find something for ya."</p><p>As he disappeared back through the maze of shelves that had been put together well above her height, Sveta sighed. She turned to the two sergeants. "Thank you. I suppose I owe you a new one of these," she added, holding the blood soaked handkerchief up to Luz.</p><p>He shook his head. "Eh, no worries. It ain't even mine. Won it in a bet earlier."</p><p>She should've known. But just nodded again, her head pounding, and sat down in the chair Spina had gestured to. "You're dismissed," she said.</p><p>They both nodded to her. It wasn't a salute, but it was certainly better than the usual total disregard for her presence, or worse, poorly hidden sniggers. They left side by side. Sveta tried to get her head to stop spinning.</p><p>"Here you go, Lieutenant." Spina reappeared with some cloths and rubbing alcohol. Standing over her, he poured the alcohol on the washcloth and started to try to clean off her face. "Jesus, he did a number on you."</p><p>Sveta flinched, biting her cheek as the alcohol burned her cuts. Tears stung her eyes. "It won't happen again," she forced out through gritted teeth. "I can assure you of that."</p><p>After letting it dry for a moment, Spina started applying some bandages to the small cuts along her forehead. It didn't take long. "They ain't too bad. Probably hurt though." Then he turned to the bruise she guessed was already forming on her jaw. "Do you want ice?"</p><p>She sighed. "Sure."</p><p>"Here's some painkillers," he told her.</p><p>Dropping a couple of pills in her hand, he turned to get her water and a pack of ice. Sveta just looked around. There was only low light on in the farmhouse turned medic station. It helped a bit with her headache. But she felt bad that Spina had to be stuck in here for the whole night. It probably got dull. When he came back, she tried to offer him a small smile.</p><p>"Thank you." She accepted the glass of water and downed the pills. Then she took the sack of ice and pressed it to her face. "Are you here the whole night?"</p><p>He sighed, falling into another chair. "Yep. Dusk to dawn. It's fine though, the shift only comes up for each of us once every couple weeks."</p><p>"Small mercies," Sveta murmured. She closed her eyes a bit, relishing the way the ice numbed her face. Though her hand started to cramp, she just pushed it into her skin. She found it oddly relaxing. Not just for the pain, but her stress. Her pounding heart slowed. "Where are you from, Spina?"</p><p>"Philadelphia, Pennsylvania," he told her.</p><p>Sveta opened her eyes. That made sense. He had an accent similar to Guarnere. She didn't know much about their state. "Do you like it?"</p><p>"Philly?" He smirked, laughing a bit. "Hell yeah. Everyone from Philly loves it. I ain't got much, but my wife's there, Agnes. So that's what matters," he told her. "You?"</p><p>Sveta shrugged. "Stalingrad, in southern Russia."</p><p>"Miss it?"</p><p>She glanced at him. Then she looked around, doing a quick check for the familiar glint of mics and out of place wires. She sighed, finding nothing. "Sometimes. I miss Russia, but I do not miss my home."</p><p>"If you're in the south, is it cold there?"</p><p>Breaking out into a smile, Sveta shook her head. "Why is this everyone's first question? It's not that cold. But I don't know if you would find it cold, as an American."</p><p>Spina laughed too. "Okay, okay." Lifting his hands up in protest, he apologized. "Just curious."</p><p>She closed her eyes again. The ice had started to melt, and she moved it around on her face to see if she could get it closer to the skin. Before long, she gave up. At least it had helped for a while.</p><p>"Done?" Spina looked up from his clipboard where he'd been checking supply lists. "Great."</p><p>She let him take the melted ice away and stood. Moving her jaw still hurt, but the ice had done the trick and left it mostly numb. "Thank you."</p><p>"No problem. You need a guard to walk you back?" he added. "I can try to find you one."</p><p>But Sveta just shook her head. "I'll be fine."</p><p>He offered her a small smile as she turned and left. Sveta sighed. She let her shoulders sag and frown replace the neutral smile. God, she was exhausted. All she wanted was to sleep for a year and have the whole thing be done. Everything. She wanted it all done.</p><p>But then she remembered the way her mother had collapsed into her desk chair each evening. Exhaustion written in every line on her face, she'd been despondent. Sveta didn't want that. Sveta didn't want to be the next one to die bleeding out on some mattress, staining satin sheets with crimson blood. So she forced herself to stand straighter. She had to get home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Third Report</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lewis Nixon | Silmarilz1701</span>
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  <em>
    <span>FOR: Col. Robert Sink, Commander, 506th PIR</span>
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    <span>SUBJECT: Summary Notes on Activities of Soviet Liaison 1st Lt. Svetlana Samonova and colleague 2nd Lt. Zhanna Casmirovna</span>
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    <span>DATE: November 7, 1943</span>
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  <span>Jesus Christ, was it already November? Nixon yawned into his cup of Irish coffee. After a quick sip, he placed it back down. The chair screeched as he moved it back a few inches. All around him desks sat empty. Only his lamp offered any light as outside, stars and a full moon shined down on the quiet little English village. Already November.</span>
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  <span>He stared at the blank page in the typewriter in front of him. Another month, another report to Sink. Nixon grabbed his drink again.</span>
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  <span>The door opened, and he glanced left. Harry and Dick, looking exhausted in their fatigues, dragged their feet across the creaky wood floors. The former had a canteen full of anything other than water, if he had to guess. Maybe vodka. Svetlana had been trying to get them all to drink it.</span>
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  <span>“Why do you always put those off until the last minute, Nix?” Harry asked. He wasted no time in pulling a desk chair out from behind another one. Plopping down, he stretched his legs and took another drink.</span>
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  <span>Dick did the same. “Harry, you know Nixon is incapable of being responsible,” he deadpanned.</span>
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  <span>Harry just smirked, and glanced back at Nixon. “How far are you?”</span>
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  <span>“I just started,” Nixon muttered. With a frown, he glanced up. “No one’s said anything about the Samaria incident?”</span>
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  <span>“Nope,” Harry said.</span>
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  <span>Dick shook his head. “They’re still being quiet.”</span>
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  <span>Nixon nodded. They’d been tight lipped for weeks. Zhanna had come out of the transatlantic trip sporting a deep bruise to her face. Svetlana had come out of it as Public Enemy Number One. He’d never seen such unadulterated loathing from the sergeants until they’d all disembarked the boat on the 16th of September.</span>
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  <span>That had gone on for weeks. For well over a month, it seemed as though Svetlana had taken ten steps back from the progress she’d made towards gaining the trust of the enlisted. But Zhanna had done much better.</span>
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  <em>
    <span>Part One: Continued Observations of 2nd Lt Zhanna Casmirovna</span>
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    <span>Good progress has been made in recent months for the integration of Casmirovna into Easy Company. Since arriving in Aldbourne, she has started to attend some social gatherings with the enlisted without Samsonova. This freedom she is gaining is hopefully helping her and the men both, easing their concerns over her inability to take charge and be responsible.</span>
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  <span>Nixon paused. There was so much more that he’d learned and so many more questions he’d gotten from that. For one, he knew Casmirovna couldn’t be her real name. Svetlana had spoken about Russian naming customs on more than one occasion. She had given her full name as Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova. Casmirovna was a patronymic, derived from her father’s name, not a family name. He knew Svetlana’s father was Alexander, so Zhanna’s father must have been Casmir, or Casimir, something similar.</span>
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  <span>Not that it mattered. He still had no way to track down her surname. And if there was one thing Svetlana kept closer to herself than information on her life in Russia, it was information on Zhanna’s life in Russia. And seeing as the dossier they’d gotten from the British didn’t even have it, they had no leads.</span>
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  <span>One thing he had heard from the enlisted had interested him. A few men from First and Second had been laughing about Zhanna getting drunk one night and speaking in a weird language. Apparently, it had been a language Svetlana hadn’t been able to translate for them.</span>
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  <span>“Someone’s thinking too hard,” Harry teased.</span>
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  <span>Nixon looked up. He scoffed, and reached for his drink. The coffee and whisky warmed his body. “No news on the mystery language?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Dick shook his head. “Are you concerned about it?”</span>
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  <span>“I don’t know,” he admitted.</span>
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  <em>
    <span>Part Two: Continued Observations of 1st Lt. Svetlana Samsonova</span>
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    <span>The past few months have seen changes in 1st Lt. Samsonova’s interactions with Easy Company. Prior to boarding the ship to Aldbourne, she had reached an uneasy truce with most of the men. After the trip to England, however, the NCOs of Easy Company seemed to regard Samsonova with distrust and anger.</span>
  </em>
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  <span>That was a bit of an understatement. The sort of jeers being thrown around when they thought no officers could hear had been surprising, the sort of things Nixon hadn’t heard since Benning. “The Crazy Commie Bitch” was used most frequently. Guarnere, as usual, seemed to hold the most sway. He’d never been a fan of her or Zhanna, but his hatred had redoubled since the ship, mostly for Svetlana.</span>
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  <span>It bothered Nixon that he couldn’t figure out why. Neither the enlisted nor Svetlana would talk. But he assumed it had to do with the bruise that Zhanna had been sporting after only the first day.</span>
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  <span>Oddly enough, the second change in Svetlana’s interactions with Easy had also come by way of a bruised face. Only this time, it had been hers.</span>
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  <em>
    <span>However, over the past couple of weeks, Samsonova has seemed to regain the respect of the NCOs of Easy Company, and with that, the respect of the rest of the men. Why such a switch has occurred, I can’t say for sure. I would assume it has something to do with the British soldier that was court-martialed for assaulting her the third week of October.</span>
  </em>
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  <span>The state of Svetlana the morning after they’d all gone to the pub had shocked him. It had shocked Dick and Harry too, and even Sobel, when she’d showed up bruised all down her face, scabbed cuts over her eye and cheek. She hadn’t said much, just that a drunk enlisted man on leave had attacked her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’d heard more from the NCOs. Apparently some of them had come across the assault on their way home from the pub. She’d fended off her attacker fairly quickly, before they could step in, but it seemed that something she said had changed their behavior.</span>
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  <em>
    <span>Whatever the reason for the shift in behavior, it can only be a good thing for the company. Hopefully with the men more willing to work with Samsonova and Casmirovna, they can finally prepare to work together to invade Europe. I have high hopes for it.</span>
  </em>
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  <em>
    <span>RECOMMENDATIONS: for Col. Sink’s consideration</span>
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  <em>
    <span>It is my opinion that regular formal reports on their activities be terminated. I have seen no reason to consider either 1st Lt. Samsonova or 2nd Lt. Casmirovna a threat. I will, however, suggest I continue to monitor them in case something changes, especially Samsonova given her connection to the NKVD, and the NKVD’s connection to the Gestapo.</span>
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  <em>
    <span>Submitted by 1st Lt. Lewis Nixon, 506th PIR</span>
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  <span>“Done.” Nixon took the last page out of the typewriter and sat back. He grinned. “See, Harry, why waste the day doing what I can do at night?”</span>
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  <span>Dick nodded. “That didn’t take long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course not,” he scoffed. “It’s not a novel, just a report.”</span>
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  <span>Harry laughed at him, pushing himself to his feet with a yawn. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. I’m tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then go to bed!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to bed if you’re staying up drinking,” he argued. “It’s a matter of honor. How could I look Kitty in the eye if I don’t match you for drinks.”</span>
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  <span>Dick rolled his eyes. As they all moved out of the office, locking it behind, he just shook his head. “Harry, don’t try it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You underestimate me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nixon just laughed. While Harry could hold quite a bit of alcohol, he doubted the Irishman could match him. But he wasn’t about to turn it down. So he suggested they finish the bottle of Vat 69 he’d gotten half way through the previous day. Once he’d dropped off the seal manila envelope, he led the way to his temporary home in Aldbourne. Just a few drinks. Then he’d sleep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. ...other side of the ocean...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>Casimir had always said a man made his own luck. If that were true, Zhanna needed to work harder. If she was making her own luck, she wouldn't be in the same platoon as Sobel on yet another maneuver, this time traipsing across fields and farmland, with no obvious destination in sight.</p><p>They were supposed to be staging a mock battle, outflanking and outthinking the enemy. Zhanna wasn't sure if their position was anywhere near a flank, the mist still floating off the pastures to reveal nothing but damp grass and livestock. They couldn't out think the enemy if they didn't think at all.</p><p>Sobel did what he always did. Sent them away to wait while he panicked. First Platoon was sent behind a line of trees, offering a bushy covering that would obscure any and all fumbling that their CO was sure to be doing. The men were amused by it but if Zhanna hadn't known to not push the river, she would have tampered with it's flow. Said something she would later regret or pay for. No, better to keep silent. Towards Sobel, at any rate.</p><p>If Zhanna was making her own luck she wouldn't have to follow Sobel's orders. She would be with Lieutenant Winters's group for the maneuver. If she was truly making her own luck, she wouldn't have gotten as tipsy as she did. The platoons had been abuzz with her inebriation but the real interest seemed to be her language. Zhanna had slipped into Polish.</p><p>She hadn't spoken a word of Polish out loud since she was fourteen years old. And it had come bubbling to the surface, here, because of that lip loosening liquid that she loved so much. How very Polish of her. Skip and Malarkey were more interested in her sudden lapse of silence, teasing her in the hopes of seeing her smile or laugh again. To bring back the little piece of Zhanna that had shown through. But that Zhanna was Polish.</p><p>It was dangerous being Polish anywhere. She had been mistaken in thinking the danger would pass when her feet touched American soil. But as Zhanna was overcome by American boots, clothes and company, she only realized how unsafe it was to be who she was. Poles and Jews weren't welcome in most companies and in America, the land of the free, Zhanna was still chained to that.</p><p>She was also chained, like it or not, to American military service and everything that entailed. Including Commanding Officers who had the sense of direction of a concussed messenger pigeon.</p><p>"Hey, Luz?" Perconte jostled the radioman's arm. "Luz. Can you do Major Horton?"</p><p>One of the brass that Sveta dealt with more than Zhanna who had a very particular accent that was rough as sand on her ears. Luz, known for his ability to mimic and joke, smiled.</p><p>"Does a wild bear crap in the woods, son?" Luz asked, in an uncanny impersonation of Major Horton.</p><p>"Get us moving, Luz," Perconte insisted. Pressure only seemed to slide off of Luz, as unease flickered in his eyes. He wanted to make fun of Sobel, they all did. But he was thinking like a soldier and Zhanna knew that, while it was the right thing to do, they needed to get used to not following orders.</p><p>"I don't know, Perco," Luz said, hesitantly. His eyes said that their orders placed them behind the trees but he didn't know that orders from incompitant officers were death warrants.</p><p>"You follow his orders now, that's fine. You finish the game." Zhanna said, speaking up for the first time since her knees had hit the dewy grass. "But when he gets lost in battle, will you still obey him?"</p><p>"What?" Luz asked. The men of Easy always seemed surprised when she opened her mouth. She would have clammed up, snapped her mouth shut and prayed they forgot her words. But Muck nudged her arm.</p><p>"What do you mean, a game," He asked, the mortar man's brow furrowed in curiosity.</p><p>"This is game. Practice." Zhanna said, gesturing at the trees. "So play game."</p><p>Muck, catching on to what the sniper was meaning, nodded. "Oh, yeah. Luz, you gotta,"</p><p>Luz relented. "Alright, just this once,"</p><p>He inhaled sharply before shouting, in the exact tone and pitch as Major Horton: "WHAT IS THE GODDAMN HOLD UP MR. SOBEL?"</p><p>Luz might as well have kicked a nest of mice. After several frantic squeaks and scurries, Zhanna had to clap her hand over her mouth to conceal the laughter at Sobel's trembling response.</p><p>"A fence, sir," He paused, gulping. "A barbed wire fence."</p><p>She couldn't laugh. She wouldn't allow herself to laugh. While the men snickered and Luz hissed at them for silence, Zhanna struggled to keep a straight face. She hadn't wanted to laugh as deeply or as hard in a long time and denying herself that was almost unbearable. Luz's continued response only made it worse.</p><p>"Oh, that dog just ain't gonna hunt. Shut up," He snapped the latter at his platoon mates, who were rolling in the dewy grass in fits of laughter. "Now, you cut that fence and get this goddamn platoon on the move!"</p><p>"Yes sir," Sobel said, turning to Tipper, who had been trying his best to assist him, their CO asked. "Where are my goddamn wire cutters?"</p><p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna has them, sir," was Tipper's response. She shivered, knowing exactly where the tools were in her kit.</p><p>"Casmirovna," Sobel shouted, his voice cutting through the breathless laughter of the platoon beside her.</p><p>"Sir?" Zhanna said, rounding the edge of the bush.</p><p>"Bring the wire cutters and cut this fence down," Sobel ordered.</p><p>"Yes sir," Zhanna said, while Muck and Perconte howled in laughter behind her.</p><p>As she struggled to cut through the fence, one that was doing its intended purpose of containing livestock, sweat dripped down her spine against the many layers she wore. March in England was cold, but not nearly as frigid as the temperatures she had endured in Russia. But the layers were there still. An armor to build up and wear.</p><p>Zhanna finally peeled back the wire, stabbing the soft flesh of her palms with the barbs but the pain was tolerable. It would be worth it. One, two, three, the men of First Platoon slipped through the now open fence and took off across the field at a swift jog. No one seemed to mind the cows that inhabited their new path but, as Zhanna looked over her shoulder, the livestock were more than pleased with the Army's renovations to their home. Her chest tightened with barely concealed laughter as the herd of cows took it upon themselves to explore the new space.</p><p>No amount of armor could shield the glimpse of Polyakova that had shown. The men of Easy Company didn't know her past. No one did. But they knew she had to survive, they knew she could survive. They didn't know that life was a river and war was the current, pulling to life or death. The outcome was determined by response.</p><p>Zhanna didn't think the men knew this, the blind faith of the American Army would have overridden any of their autonomy. But as the men jogged down the road, banded tightly together, Zhanna at their core, it seemed they were starting to learn. War wasn't a game and Sobel was playing with all of their lives.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. ...the wake of disaster...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p><hr/><p>If Zhanna truly made her own luck, Lewis Nixon wouldn't have been assigned to Easy Company in the first place. Or, perhaps, she would have managed to avoid him. That would have been true luck. Everywhere she went, it seemed, he wasn't far behind. Sinister or the simple explanation of a small village?</p><p>Zhanna's back against the stonewall that surrounded her and Sveta's billet, she slid two fingers between the three layers she wore, trying to bring some air to the suffocating skin underneath. She had been left alone for the afternoon, no one needing her from officer duties or any drill. Sveta's past of diplomacy seemed to be in high demand but Zhanna wasn't requested. She would have brought out her rifle and gone to shoot at the range but thought of leaving this little garden was frightening.</p><p>Sobel had decided to blame Zhanna for the cows that had run loose through Aldbourne, since her hands had held the wire cutters, nevermind who gave the orders. If she ventured from the oasis of shrubs and flowers, Zhanna would risk seeing their CO and being tasked with a less than desirable job.</p><p>Agata had talked about her family's garden in Poland: vegetables, flowers and herbs that were as beautiful as they were sustaining. In Russia, she hadn't been able to tend a plot of land. Agata had always spoken of the rewards that dirty hands and hours in the sun yielded. Maybe they would have a garden once this was all over? When they found that safe place.</p><p>Maybe that safe place wouldn't be so hot. Zhanna pulled the hair off her neck, and sighed. The long sleeve undershirt from her own Russian uniform remained a staple, keeping her warm even in the depths of winter. But here in England, she didn't need three layers. But she wanted them.</p><p>"Are you warm enough?" Nixon asked. Unlucky again. He stood at the gate to the Connors'.</p><p>"Can I help you?"</p><p>"Colonel Sink wants to speak to you."</p><p>"I didn't receive summons," Zhanna said, her heart pounding.</p><p>"It's strictly off the books."</p><p>Zhanna had heard from Sveta that Nixon was writing about them to Sink. What had he found out that required an off the record meeting? Her body began to chill. Her fingers tingled as frost spread across her palms and up her arms, under the tight layers.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"I have no idea," Nixon said, his eyes heavy on her now numbing face. Her lips must have been blue, as they started towards HQ. She couldn't ignore summons from Sink, no matter what he knew. If Zhanna was to be court-martialed, she would rather just get it over with. "To be perfectly honest, Sink doesn't tell me much."</p><p>And here she was, thinking Nixon knew every dark secret she had locked away. Maybe he wasn't as good at hiding in the shadows as she had thought.</p><p>"It must be hard," Zhanna said, her legs working hard to keep up with Nixon's pace. "To be an intelligence officer with no information."</p><p>"It must be hard being a Russian in the American Army," Nixon said. "I hear Private Muck has taken you under his wing."</p><p>Zhanna nodded, giving the lieutenant the barest scraps of contribution to the conversation. If she was quiet, he wouldn't learn anymore than he already knew. And, if she was quiet, maybe she could figure out just how much he had typed up in those reports.</p><p>"Did you enjoy your time at the pub?" Nixon stepped to the side of the road, out of the path of a jeep and pulling Zhanna with him by her sleeve. "I heard you really let down your hair."</p><p>So he did know about her relapse into Polish. Of course, he did. How could one man fluctuate between discernment and stupidity?</p><p>"I don't want to talk about it with you," Zhanna said. She didn't want to talk about it with anyone. But especially not with Nixon. Not when she walked closer to her impending summons, that could end in the death of her dream and destruction of what little safety she had mustered.</p><p>"It seems Samsonova needs to teach you some of her tact."</p><p>Zhanna didn't need tact. And while she didn't have a temper to lose, she didn't mind leveling a rifle to Nixon's head. But it would be better to respond in kind. Something she very rarely did.</p><p>"Is Lieutenant Winters ill?" Zhanna asked.</p><p>"No," Nixon's brow furrowed. "Why do you ask?'</p><p>"I just wondered why Sink would send you," She said, fingers reaching instinctively for her rifle strap but it was not in its usual place on her shoulder. Zhanna had left it on the grease-stained cloth upstairs, disassembled. She hadn't thought that her moment of peace in the garden would have been interrupted by Nixon.</p><p>"Dick is currently in Sobel's doghouse," Nixon explained, holding open the door to HQ for her. Chivalry wasn't something she expected from him but Zhanna accepted it, the temperature shifting when she had stepped inside. "After a poorly articulated court martial, he will be doing more menial tasks. I'm sure you know the kind."</p><p>"I am familiar," Zhanna said, pausing in the hallway. Nixon stopped a few feet away from her. There was a divide that hadn't been there before. She had feared him, seeing in him the men who stalked her family and had been the reason for their untimely departure. She wasn't sure she feared him anymore. But there was a layer of unease, like thick ice. Distrust that couldn't be easily thawed.</p><p>"Does Sobel hate you for any particular reason?" Nixon asked. "I mean, apart from the obvious."</p><p>Did he hate her because she was Russian? Or maybe it was an underlying hatred for the female kind? Either was plausible but Zhanna didn't think that was what Nixon was asking about.</p><p>"Do you require meeting with me, Lieutenant Nixon?" Zhanna asked. "Am I under interrogation?"</p><p>"No, just a few questions," Nixon said simply. It wasn't simple though. He looked at her with those eyes and she didn't fear him but she didn't trust his reasoning. Nixon knew about her slipup after the bar. Nixon knew more about Sveta than Zhanna had seen her share. "Lieutenant Casmirovna, is that right?"</p><p>Is that right? Did he know that it wasn't her real last name, as the Americans would know and understand? That it was her father's name? Her Polish and Jewish father who she had last seen disappearing into the Stalingrad shadows when she was fourteen. A man who's name she bore with pride and in disguise.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Zhanna said, turning to leave. "I have a meeting with Colonel Sink."</p><p>She started down the hallway that led to Sink's office, the door opening before she could reach for the handle and she came face to face with Guarnere, Lipton, and the other NCOs. The ones she had been met with after their maneuver, eager to talk to her. Well, Lipton had been. Guarnere was more bregurding in his conversation.</p><p>"What did you-" Zhanna said, as the sergeants passed her in the hallway, their faces grim, leaving the door open wide enough for her to see inside. Sink, at his desk, looking particularly stony-faced. What could he possibly want from her?</p><p>The NCOs had only asked her what she had meant by following orders until she couldn't. It seemed they were now realizing who was signing their death sentences but what could they have done?</p><p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna, sit down."</p><p>Zhanna did, shaken by the walk over with Nixon and the look of uncertainty that Lipton had flashed her as he passed. Had they told Sink of her methods of civil disobedience? Was this cause for treason?</p><p>"Casmirovna, you've been with us a while."</p><p>A while. That was a bit of an understatement. A year or two felt more accurate. Zhanna's hands were still frozen, the numbness now spreading like frost up her arms into onto her shoulders. She didn't have her rifle to fiddle with today so her trembling fingers toyed with her jacket.</p><p>"I have, sir."</p><p>"You have had some difficulty with some of the men and with some of the officers," Sink said. "Lieutenant Nixon has been keeping me informed."</p><p>Of course he had been. She almost sighed. "It is nothing, sir."</p><p>"Casmirovna, my NCOs just mutinied," Sink said.</p><p>"That is unfortunate. My condolences, sir."</p><p>"You didn't have anything to do with it?" He asked, his tone not entirely convinced that it wasn't a possibility.</p><p>"Sir?" Her head tilted to one side.</p><p>"You were on the maneuver with them. You have already buttted heads with Sobel more than once. He can be stubborn but it's more than that." Sink studied her with a different intensity than Nixon's eyes usually possessed. "You are a soldier. You've seen battle. Be frank with me, Casmirovna,"</p><p>"Frank, sir?" She asked.</p><p>"Tell me if these men are really ready for war?" His question seemed genuine and Zhanna was speechless for a few moments.</p><p>Zhanna had many opinions. Sharp ones, indifferent ones. The nice thing about such opinions was that she could keep them to herself. She wasn't used to someone asking what she thought. And she had thought about this.</p><p>The men of Easy Company still possessed the blind faith drilled into them in boot camp and training. They still believed in their superior officers, most of them. If Sink had asked her back in Benning or MacKall if Easy was ready for war, she would have been most ardent in her response. No. They were too busy with infighting and worrying about nationality rather than loyalty.</p><p>But the Samaria had changed things and so had Aldbourne. And the NCOs had mutinied, for what, Zhanna wasn't sure but it couldn't be a coincidence that Sobel had been their topic of conversation. Maybe they were ready?</p><p>"Sir, we will never know until they are fighting," Zhanna said. "But they will never have the chance to fight if a commanding officer will lead them astray."</p><p>Sink didn't answer, just nodding for her to continue. She didn't have very many complete sentences to say, just a jumble of words but somehow managed to string them together into a comprehensible point.</p><p>"Captain Sobel could be a great man but he is not a commanding officer." Zhanna could see that potential in many others. Winters's steady presence and unwavering calm was more prolific in leadership qualities. "He will get a lot of men killed."</p><p>She wondered if she had said too much but Zhanna had fought the Germans before. Sink had not. He didn't know what should be expected, not in these battlefields that couldn't be recreated in the English countryside. This was very real and the lives of men were real too. Sobel didn't see that.</p><p>Colonel Sink dismissed her without a word, just a nod towards the door that could have meant anything. She stood, fingers trembling and the sweat still beading on her skin, despite the ice that was cooling her veins. Zhanna didn't thaw until she had slipped back out of Command, not finding Nixon in the place she had left him. She let the sun hit her face and scurried down the road, back to the safety of the garden and to the comforting feeling of her rifle in her hands.</p><p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna," It was a familiar voice, just as she passed a truck being unloaded with supplies for the kitchen. A job she had done in Benning and MacKall more than once.</p><p>"Lieutenant Winters," She said. Her throat was dry but she stopped beside the red-haired man. "I'm sorry to hear about your-"</p><p>The man waved away her concern. He didn't say anything but his feelings were clear. THere wasn't anything anyone could do with Sobel. They were all just victims to his games.</p><p>"You requested a trial?" She asked. He could have just accepted the punishment. Something she had done many times. It was easier that way. Say it was fine, that it didn't matter, and to keep pushing.</p><p>"I did." Winters nodded, fiddling with the clipboard in his hands, marked with the inventory for Command and the kitchens. "I figured, we don't need to just survive in this war. We need to win it, yes?"</p><p>Survival was all they could do. All they could hope for. Life would keep pushing them along, bending them to its will but war wasn't like the river. War could be fought. War could be won.</p><p>"Yes," She said, a little breathlessly that someone understood. Finally understood what it was like.</p><p>"The men seemed to take your speech about orders to heart," Winters glanced back and forth between Zhanna and the Battalion command. "Are you alright?"</p><p>She nodded, her voice not cooperating. She wasn't court martialed. She wasn't tossed back to Russia. And the men of Easy had listened to her. They had actually listened. Winters seemed satisfied with her silent response and made a few notes on his clipboard. They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the base's tide of daily operations ebb and flow past them.</p><p>"Do you think the men are ready for war, Lieutenant?" Zhanna asked, suddenly.</p><p>Winters looked at her curiously. "I think I should be asking you that question."</p><p>"Sink already did." Zhanna admitted. "But what do you think?"</p><p>"I'm not sure. Is anyone ready for war?" Winters asked. "Were you?"</p><p>No. She hadn't been. Zhanna had been fighting her whole life, surviving. But survival in dark alleys and inside the walls of your own home was very different from that of a battlefield. Zhanna had adapted. Zhanna had overcome. She followed orders until she couldn't and it had served her well.</p><p>"No," Zhanna said, leaning against the truck. Her body was slowly starting to thaw, something about Winters just set everything at ease. He was the commander Easy needed. If Sink could see that. If he listened to the NCOs and to Zhanna and removed Sobel, he would have the best company in the whole Airborne. If he listened, his men would be ready for war. Easy Company would die for each other but they didn't need to die in vain.</p><p>Zhanna did something very unlike her, something she had failed to do, out of habit and out of necessity for years. She looked up, meeting Winters's pale blue eyes with a steady gaze. "But I think they will be."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. ...a new wind blows...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/><p>Her bags were packed. They sat by the door to her bedroom that she shared with Zhanna, ready for the trip to Upottery. All she had left to do was load a truck in the morning.</p><p>Sveta closed her eyes. All around her, the grass in the quiet field on Aldbourne's outskirts rustled in the gentle wind. The setting sun cast reds and golds across the sky, bleeding into the dark black of the encroaching night. A peace settled around her.</p><p>She took a deep breath. The scent of approaching rain, the musky petrichor seeping into the air, soothed her nerves. Sitting there in the open, alone, Sveta tried to picture Russia. That's what she fought for. The scarlet flag with the golden sickle, the Valdai hills, the Volga river.</p><p>Before she'd turned ten, her mother had taken her to Moscow for a vacation. Sveta remembered their trip on the Volga. She'd sworn to her mother that she'd seen flamingos in the wetlands. It had just been Sveta, and her mother, and the waters of the Mother Volga.</p><p>Everything had been so much simpler then. They had been simpler for Sveta, at least. She opened her eyes. The sun had almost disappeared, dark clouds covering the stars that should've been shining down. She'd not seen it then. She'd not seen the way her mother had been suffering in silence.</p><p>A gust of wind blew her loose hair into her face. Sveta nearly choked on the strands that hit her mouth at the same time she breathed in. Moments later, a mist of rain began to fall around her. Beads of water formed on her bare hands. It plastered her hair to her cheeks.</p><p>Her mother had always loved the rain. It had rained that night, the one that haunted Sveta's dreams. But even the thunder hadn't masked the bang of the pistol. Sveta could hear the screams. They'd been her own. Between the flashes of lightning and thunder claps, she'd screamed for her mom over and over and over.</p><p>But she didn't wake up. Something in Sveta had died that day, died right alongside her mom. The Korovin pistol had killed her resolve, had killed her hope, had killed her dreams. Then it had only been her, and the fear, and Zhanna against Stalin, and Beria, and her father.</p><p>A distant roll of thunder made Sveta look up at the night sky. Lightning streaked across the darkness. She sighed. The rain began to pick up. Pushing herself to her feet, Sveta looked out across the field one more time. At least she had Zhanna. As a child, Sveta had never had friends, just acquaintances with the other kids of Stalin's friends.</p><p>Vasily Stalin, Lana's older brother, had turned to drinking the same year Sveta had been captured. 1935 had been a rough year for people near Stalin. She'd only heard from him a few times after the war began. She hoped he was doing well.</p><p>With a last look across the dark field, Sveta turned her face up into the rain. She stayed there for a moment. The rain concealed any tears she hadn't been able to suppress. Then she turned away.</p><p>Tomorrow they would move to Upottery. Tomorrow they would get one step closer to returning to the mainland. Each step brought her closer to Russia.</p><p>A pit formed in her stomach. Did she want to return to that? To the politics and the games and the secret threats around every corner? She did not, but she wanted to return home to her Motherland. She wanted to see the Volga again.</p><p>After a few moments of quiet walking, her feet hit pavement. Her boots pounded rhythmically against the cobbles. Sveta wanted a drink. She needed one, a good strong one. There was a pub not far from the exit of town. Zhanna said that the enlisted frequented it, and while that didn't exactly make her feel better, at least she knew it wouldn't be unheard of for her to drop in.</p><p>The windows glowed as she approached. Sveta didn't even try to hurry to escape the rain, already soaked to the bone. So she just waited for a couple of officers to pass her before ducking inside. A chorus of voices singing some sort of drinking song made her pause before she slipped through the crowd.</p><p>She noticed a few men from 2nd Battalion, mostly from Fox Company. The others were 506th as well. Before long she'd gotten a bottle of scotch and a shot glass, and taken a table by a window that had been recently vacated.</p><p>The images kept playing like a movie in her mind. The gunshot, the deafening silence, then the pounding of her shoes as Sveta had run from her room. The white sheets were stained red. Her mother's arm had fallen, lifeless, to the side of the bed. The brown pistol had clattered to the floor. Sveta remembered her stomach dropping into her shoes.</p><p>Grabbing the scotch bottle, Sveta poured herself a glass full and downed it before it touched the table. She refilled it. She drank it. Then she filled it again.</p><p>Her mother's eyes had been hazel. She'd grown up wishing for the brilliant bronze and green instead of the dark brown she'd inherited from Alexander Samsonov. She'd inherited his name, she'd inherited his enemies, why did she have to have his eyes too?</p><p>But in that moment, when Sveta had finally moved from the doorway into the cavernous bedroom her mother shared with the man she still called Sasha, Sveta hated those hazel eyes. They'd stared back at her with an emptiness she never wanted to see again. She'd seen eyes like that once before, in Rostov-on-Don, when she'd passed the corpses made by the NKVD in her name.</p><p>Sveta couldn't recall when Zhanna had come up behind her. All she remembered was the emptiness in that room. She only remembered the echo of her screams.</p><p>"Hey, Lieutenant!"</p><p>Sveta glanced up from where she nursed her third glass. Bedraggled and wet but seemingly in a surprisingly good mood, Private Spina moved over to her. Sergeant Roe followed a bit more grumpy behind. She nodded to them.</p><p>"You here by yourself?" Spina asked in surprise.</p><p>Sveta shrugged. "I was on my way home, figured I'd stop in."</p><p>"Grabbing a last drink before the winds change?" Spina smirked.</p><p>"Something like that," she agreed. After a moment Sveta sighed. "You two can sit here, if you need."</p><p>"Hey! Thanks," Spina said, grinning.</p><p>He wasted no time plopping himself down. Beside him, Eugene followed a bit more slowly, taking a drink of his beer. But he offered her a smile.</p><p>Leaning forward, Spina lowered his voice. "Any word on when we're jumping?"</p><p>She shook her head. "No. But we need a new commanding officer before that," she reminded them.</p><p>Sobel had been gone for only a couple of weeks, but they still didn't have anyone to replace him. Word was they were getting someone within the 506th already, but that his transfer had been held up. She didn't have any more information than that.</p><p>"Well, whoever it is, he's gotta be better than Sobel," Spina muttered.</p><p>Roe scoffed under his breath. "Spina, everybody's better than Sobel."</p><p>She had to agree. "We can only hope the army doesn't make another bad decision."</p><p>"Wish it had been Winters," Spina muttered. "He's the guy we all want."</p><p>Sveta didn't know what to say to that. While it was true that Winters not only had the men's respect, but he also was an undoubtedly fantastic mind in the field, she couldn't help but worry about his ties to Nixon. Nixon had yet to convince her he wasn't a threat of some sort.</p><p>"When it comes down to it, it's you, the medics, that the men will be looking to," she finally said. Sveta set down her empty shot glass. "When the bullets start flying, you have the toughest job."</p><p>Neither of them responded at first. Sveta didn't want to frighten them, but she wouldn't lie. She'd seen many men shot in the Battle of Smolensk. She'd seen many empty eyes staring up at the sky. She'd heard the soldiers cry out for their medics, the men and women who could save them from that endless dark.</p><p>Sveta offered them a small smile that she hoped was comforting. "In Smolensk, where I fought before fleeing Russia, the medics were saviors. You'll do fine."</p><p>"What's it like, Lieutenant?" Roe asked.</p><p>"Battle?" Sveta paused. "Loud. Chaotic. With long silences in between." She sighed. "We barely escaped with our lives. A miracle, really." But Sveta didn't like to think about Smolensk. So she tried to change the subject. "Roe, you speak French?"</p><p>"Some, yeah," he nodded.</p><p>"So do I. Some," she amended. "It's been a while. I learned French and English from my tutors growing up."</p><p>"Must've been rich," Spina said.</p><p>Sveta forced a smile. She sat up straighter, filling her shot glass for a third time. As they sipped their beers, she sipped her scotch. "Yes. Quite wealthy. My father is well known in Russia," she added. "He's active in politics."</p><p>"Nice."</p><p>Sure. She didn't correct them, just nodded with a smile. She had figured out not too long after joining Easy that the men didn't really know much about her family. They knew she had a powerful family name, but not why. And Sveta had no desire to enlighten them.</p><p>She looked down at her watch. "I should go. You as well," she added. "We move out early tomorrow for the airfield."</p><p>"Yes, ma'am," Roe nodded.</p><p>Spina grinned. "Good night."</p><p>She smiled, nodded, and left the rest of the scotch for them if they wanted it. After a few moments of forcing her way through the crowded pub, she reached the door. It pushed open with ease.</p><p>The clouds had disappeared. Instead of darkness, the stars sparkled far above. A full moon lit the night. Sveta took a deep breath. She smiled. Tomorrow they would move one step closer to home. One step closer to Russia. When she got back, then Sveta would worry about how to leave the shadow her father cast. But until then, she would just remember the Volga. That was home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. ...buried down inside...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Since arriving in Britain Zhanna had enjoyed very little time to herself, something she had regularly enjoyed. In the Samsonovs' residence in Stalingrad, she would be left to her own devices for the most part and occupied her time with borrowing a bottle from their extensive vodka collection and finding a nice quiet corner. Some similar scenarios could be said of her time in Smolensk. When they were not on the field, she could find some sort of burning liquid to freeze her fear. Whether it gifted her with numbing courage or to ward off the memories, either would do.</p>
<p>Zhanna hadn't spent time on her own since leaving Russia, always in Sveta's constant company. Though Sveta wasn't the worst company, they rarely spoke, relying on wordless communication, Zhanna had managed to snatch up only a few short moments of solitude since Stalingrad fell.</p>
<p>She couldn't even enjoy alcohol now. What did that American propaganda say? Loose lips sink ships? Well, Zhanna had nearly plummeted her safety to the bottom of the ocean with the Polish slip up. And while Skip and Malarkey offered to take her back to the pub, she declined. It was too much of a risk.</p>
<p>Since their transfer to Upottery and Sveta's assimilation to the officers' company, Zhanna had managed to slip away once or twice. There wasn't much she could do but she was satisfied to find a quiet corner of camp, in between rows of tents, and spread out her wool blanket. There she would take care to take apart her rifle.</p>
<p>Agata had never allowed Zhanna to break apart, to shatter like ice, but in disassembling her gun and cleaning away all the grime that weighted it down she felt as if a part of her was being refreshed too. Zhanna couldn't be taken apart and studied for flaws or snags but the rifle could. Zhanna had to be in perfect working condition and so did her rifle but only one could be in disrepair.</p>
<p>As the preparations for the impending jump into Europe grew in intensity and the still unknown deadline was surely growing closer, Zhanna retreated to that hidden spot. The gun wasn't even dirty, hardly being used, but she needed to keep her hands busy. If she stopped and thought too much, Zhanna would begin to recall things she would rather forget.</p>
<p>The first time she had come to England, when running from the Germans and into the waiting arms of the Allies, Zhanna had buried more than a few secrets in the soft peat. The pounding sound of machine guns, the feeling of cool dirt on her belly as she lay like a snake in the grass. She hadn't thought they would still be there. She didn't think they would still make her skin crawl.</p>
<p>The bruise on her face from the Samaria had still been fresh when the full force of the memories hit her, nearly knocking her off her feet as she disembarked in England. She hadn't slept well, not with the continent of Europe so close. Not when she had been closer than she had been in years to home.</p>
<p>The rows of tents, set up like the street she had grown up on, reminded Zhanna a little too much of home. A little too much of the things she had lost that night and everything torn from her since. Footsteps drummed dimly against the ground somewhere among the tents, the vibrations sending her back to laying awake in bed in that freezing room. Footsteps marked the loss of another neighbor, another friend. Boots against cobblestones marked the nights that would end in blood on the streets and an empty house.</p>
<p>Agata and Casimir hadn't woken her but their scurried steps and the anxiety in the air cut through the usual cold. That night in May, with their home always cold and the fear that had been underlying now bubbling to the surface. Zhanna hadn't needed to be jostled awake. Her feet touched the wood floors before she could fully open her eyes.</p>
<p>Stumbling half asleep, half in shock at the scene before her, Zhanna hadn't been able to put words together. Her parents, frantic, in the front room. Casimir was never worried, but the furrow in his brow scared Zhanna more than the threat of being arrested ever had. They had lived in a cool indifference. They were fine, everything was fine. They were together. They were safe. Life was good and everything was okay. But indifference wasn't what she saw that night. Zhanna saw fear.</p>
<p>Zhanna's hands trembled against the rifle pieces, like they had that night, when Agata had taken her by the hand and told her to get a coat. Their quick trip through the darkened streets of Stalingrad, like thieves in the night, had been perpetuated by breathless gasps and the assurance that there were NKVD officers following in their wake.</p>
<p>They had slipped into Maria's home, shaking in fear. There, Casimir shattered Zhanna's world. It wasn't safe for her parents anymore. They would be going back to Poland, smuggled across the border. No, Zhanna would be staying here. With Maria, who's conversion to the Orthodox church and her ties to one of the great families of the Soviet Union would keep her safe. Zhanna could be Russian. She had been born here, after all.</p>
<p>"My little Perelko, we'll be back," Agata had said, tracing a hand over Zhanna's braid, that was wild with anxiety and the night air. They wouldn't be. Why would they come back for her?</p>
<p>"Can't I go with you?" Zhanna had begged. She could see those relatives that fate and a new border had separated from them. "Please, can I go with you?"</p>
<p>She had been too old to beg like that, fourteen was too old to still clasp tight her father's rough hand. But Zhanna didn't care. Instead of her parents hand's to hold, Zhanna was given a leather bound journal with rough edges and a silver chain from which hung a Star of David. A book and a necklace would never replace her parents but they served as a reminder.</p>
<p>They followed her to Maria's spare room, which was just as cold as her childhood home. The necklace was pressed against her skin under the layers of clothing to stave off the chill. The journal under the frostbitten pillow, stained with ink that told Agata and Casimir all about her life with Maria. How Zhanna bristled under her demeaning nickname, "Zhannochka" and how Maria had broken her promise to them. The journal was packed up in her carpetbag, necklace tight against her throat, as she crossed the threshold of the most powerful man in Russia's home, as a piece on their chessboard.</p>
<p>The letters she wrote to her parents skipped the time in which she was in the field, a month in which the only thing written was the ending of thirty men. Machine guns rattled like typewriter keys and the ground shook with the thunder of shells. Her parents didn't need to know how she had taken to the rifle like a fish to water. She didn't need to tell them about the men she had killed or how, in England, she had awoken, drenched in sweat and the taste of blood in her mouth. Because Zhanna was fine. They didn't need to know about her troubles because Zhanna was alive. Zhanna was okay. And Zhanna was going home.</p>
<p>Her rifle cleaned and her mind clearer, Zhanna slowly began to reassemble it. Piecing back together the philosophy of a Polyakov. The river of life would have its way with her and what could Zhanna do but let it push her?</p>
<p>The sound of heavy boots thumped against the ground, and Zhanna stilled, out of habit. Out of fear. There were many explanations for this sound. She was in a military camp. Military issued boots sounded the same, whether they were Russian made or American though Zhanna thought that the Soviet's had a more threatening tone to the sole. But no one ever ventured to this alley of tents before 1400 hours. Zhanna had never encountered another soul here, amongst the crates and the canvas walls. Quickly, she scrambled to reassemble her rifle. She would be vulnerable without it. The months of obsessive cleaning had paid off in speed, and before the boots turned the corner it was assembled and Zhanna was on her feet.</p>
<p>"Jesus, drop the gun!"</p>
<p>She didn't mean to level her rifle at him but he was an imposing figure, this soldier who Zhanna had never seen before. The barrel of the rifle went up and up and up until she could see his face. He was tall, head and shoulders above her, and he didn't look frightened of her. Just taken aback. Interesting.</p>
<p>Silently, Zhanna lowered her rifle and let it rest on her shoulder. She didn't speak but watched him curiously. His head, dusted in white blonde hair, was covered in a garrison cap and his sleeve showed his rank as second lieutenant. Didn't Easy need another lieutenant now that Sobel had been booted and the ranks had shifted?</p>
<p>"You one of those Russians?" He asked. His accent was different to Winters or Nixon's. Clearer, like an ocean breeze. "The sniper?"</p>
<p>Sveta and Zhanna were both snipers but something about him only recognizing Zhanna warmed her. It was probably just the rifle she wore but to be recognized was both thrilling and terrifying.</p>
<p>"Yes," She said. She couldn't stay silent much longer. She didn't need another officer against her. Nixon still stalked around her as if searching for the key to her secrets and while Winters wasn't against her, he didn't always show his support either. When they jumped in Normandy, the men would be looking for a fellow paratrooper. Zhanna needed allies.</p>
<p>"I'm Second Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna."</p>
<p>"Buck, Buck Compton," He extended a hand, a massive palm the size of her head. Zhanna didn't understand these Americans and their names. Skip, and now Buck. There was an officer named Moose Heyliger who was sure to be somewhere in these tents. She also didn't accept his extended hand, looking at it then back up at his face.</p>
<p>"Damn, that's right," Compton said. "Russians don't do that."</p>
<p>He moved to withdraw his hand but Zhanna surprised both him and herself by reaching and shaking his hand. Her little hand was cold and the contact was strange. She pulled her hand away quickly but it couldn't be erased.</p>
<p>"Were you really gonna shoot me?" Compton asked, his voice sounded joking but something in his eyes showed his real uncertainty.</p>
<p>"Might have," Zhanna shrugged. "You were in my way."</p>
<p>If she had said that to the men of Easy Company, any trust that had been built since disembarking from the Samaria would have vanished like the English fog. But Compton laughed, not at all intimidated. "First day on the job and I almost got shot by a fellow officer,"</p>
<p>A fellow? Zhanna's brow furrowed and Compton continued, as so many did, before she could decide whether she wanted to speak or not.</p>
<p>"New assistant platoon leader of Easy Company. Don't suppose you are in 2nd platoon?"</p>
<p>"And if I wasn't?" Zhanna shouldered her rifle, the strap lying still against her ODs. For once, she didn't play with it. This giant of a man was a confusing one. He wasn't like Nixon, who wanted to puzzle her out. He wasn't like Winters, who seemed to be sorry for her. Buck Compton seemed to want to talk to her. And Zhanna was willing to reply.</p>
<p>"I'd have Lieutenant Samsonova to reckon with and her reputation precedes her,"</p>
<p>"It does," it wasn't a question. Zhanna knew that all of the American brass knew to keep Sveta on their good sides. She was a bargaining chip, a piece on a chessboard just as much as Zhanna.</p>
<p>"And you would prefer me?" Zhanna said, slowly, tasting the words. How they felt on her tongue. Had anyone chosen a Pole over power before? Had anyone chosen her before?</p>
<p>"We are jumping into Europe, Lieutenant. Can I call you Zhanna?" He didn't wait for her to reply but bulldozed on. "We are jumping into Europe, Zhanna. You know how to use that rifle?"</p>
<p>"I'm decent," Zhanna said. Not minding that he used her first name. Not minding that his height shadowed her small frame. He was speaking a language she understood. Survival. And Buck Compton wanted her as his ally. Zhanna needed a few more allies and she could certainly use one like Compton, tall and an officer. "And yes, you may call me Zhanna."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. ...be the nice guy sometimes...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>"What do you want from me, Harry?"</p>
<p>"Just guess!"</p>
<p>Across from her in the officers' mess tent, Harry Welsh sat nursing a canteen of water or alcohol, which she couldn't say. Only a half dozen officers occupied the space. The rest of the tables sat empty. But she and Harry had the morning off as First Platoon sat in on a VD and Sex Ed lecture.</p>
<p>Sveta now found herself opposite him at a weather-stained wooden table, a bowl of rapidly cooling oatmeal her mid-morning breakfast. "What am I guessing?"</p>
<p>"Oh come on, Svetlana. You know."</p>
<p>"No, I don't." She took another bite. "Unless you want me to guess how long you have until I punch you in the face."</p>
<p>He just grinned at her. In recent weeks, she'd made a concerted effort to get to know Harry at least, as the two of them would be working side by side in First Platoon after they jumped. If she wanted to survive to reach home again, she had to have allies.</p>
<p>She liked Harry Welsh. He was straightforward, kind, had a good mind for combat. He also wasn't above mischief if he saw his opportunity. And he liked to drink. She'd been trying to get him into vodka, but quality vodka was hard to come by in England.</p>
<p>"The replacement officer for Third Platoon. Have you met him yet?"</p>
<p>Sveta shook her head. "No, I haven't."</p>
<p>He'd only gotten in the day before. Lieutenant Lynn "Buck" Compton. Zhanna had met him, though. Said he was tall. But all the officers were tall. Well, except for Harry.</p>
<p>"Guess how long it took for Guarnere to make fun of him for being college-educated?"</p>
<p>Sveta put down her spoon and looked up at Harry. "Five seconds flat," she sneered. "Sergeant Guarnere can't keep his mouth shut."</p>
<p>Harry just shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. "Yeah, well, Compton took it well. By the end of the briefing, I swear Guarnere started to like him."</p>
<p>"No accounting for taste," she muttered. Guarnere's name left a bad taste in her mouth. Just like the oatmeal she'd been trying to force down her throat. "Guarnere needs to learn tact."</p>
<p>"Tact? From a man from Philly?" Harry shook his head. "Good luck with that."</p>
<p>Sveta looked at him. "You've been there?"</p>
<p>"I'm from another part of the state," he explained. "Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Best town in P.A."</p>
<p>She didn't respond. Finishing up her oatmeal, she just slid the bowl a few inches away and sighed. They still didn't have a drop day. Just lots of orders to wait and see what would happen. As she went to respond, a familiar voice interrupted her.</p>
<p>"You two look bored," Nixon said. He wandered over through the tent, his own tray only holding a cup of coffee and some toast. As he slid in next to Harry, he just yawned. Then he dumped his flask into the coffee. "What's today's topic of conversation?"</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Compton," Harry supplied. "Any gossip on him?"</p>
<p>Nixon smirked. "Aw, Harry. You think so highly of me." Taking a sip of his spiked coffee, Nixon just shrugged. "Not much to tell, other than he's top of his class and an athletics nut."</p>
<p>"So the opposite of you," Sveta deadpanned.</p>
<p>Harry burst out laughing. It took a moment for Nixon to get over the brief shock at her words, but then he just snorted as well and took another drink. "Wrong on only one count. I was top of my class."</p>
<p>She didn't respond. Instead Sveta turned to her own coffee and took a drink. Harry and Nixon got to talking. She didn't mind. It wasn't long, though, before they were interrupted yet again. And this time, she recognized only one of the two men.</p>
<p>Dick Winters walked side by side with a tall, shockingly blond man. The lieutenant's bar on his shoulders gave him away as Lieutenant Compton. He had an easy smile, and was grinning at whatever Winters was telling him about. Sveta sat up straighter.</p>
<p>"First Lieutenant Svetlana Samsonova, this is Second Lieutenant Buck Compton," Winters said. They came to a stop at the table. "And Buck, you've already met Welsh and Nixon."</p>
<p>But Harry insisted on a first-name basis. "Just Harry."</p>
<p>After a grin at Harry, he turned her way. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant," Compton said, nodding to her.</p>
<p>Sveta expected him to push for a handshake. When he didn't, she just nodded back. "Lieutenant."</p>
<p>"At the moment, she's in First Platoon with Harry," Winters explained. "You've already met her colleague Lieutenant Casmirovna."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I ran into Zhanna yesterday. How's the food?" he asked her.</p>
<p>Sveta watched him for a moment before answering. His grip had been strong. He was well built, tall, no doubt due to his love of athletics that Nixon had mentioned. Blue eyes looked from her to the others and coffee without care. And he smiled easily. But the most startling thing was that he'd called her Zhanna. He'd used her first name. It left her speechless.</p>
<p>It took her a moment to recover from the surprise. But then she just shrugged. "Passable. I've had worse. But I've certainly had better."</p>
<p>Compton laughed. "Well. Better than nothing, right?"</p>
<p>"Come on, we should get some before this place fills up," Winters suggested. "We can chat in a minute."</p>
<p>As they moved away, Sveta watched him. But Nixon's laugh broke her attention and she turned to him. "Something's amusing, Nixon?"</p>
<p>"You're watching him like he might turn around and stab you," he joked.</p>
<p>But Sveta didn't find it funny at all. He didn't understand. Nixon liked to play spy, play at hiding in the shadows. That's what it was to him. A way to amuse himself, to keep his mind sharp. Probably a way to keep out of the field. He didn't know what it was like for that game to become the only path to survival.</p>
<p>"Nixon," she started, "this may be hard for you to comprehend, but I'm better at this than you."</p>
<p>Nixon took his coffee cup from his lips. After swallowing his drink, he asked what she meant. "What?"</p>
<p>"For you, the intelligence stuff is a game." She glanced briefly at Harry next to him. He'd gone silent, much more serious. At least he took her warnings seriously. She continued on, "For me, this is a way of life."</p>
<p>"Oh come on," Nixon said. He just laughed and pointed to where Compton and Winters were getting food. "You can't seriously think Buck Compton's a Nazi spy, that All American baseball boy?"</p>
<p>She'd never said Nazi. But if that's what he wanted to believe she meant, she would play along. "Maybe not. But being extra careful can save you a lot of trouble in the end."</p>
<p>Before Nixon could say more, Winters and Compton returned. Winters took a spot next to her, and Compton by Harry. They started eating the oatmeal eagerly.</p>
<p>"Now's as good a time as any to tell you," Nixon started. "I got the name of your replacement C.O." All of them stopped what they were doing and turned to Nixon, making him grin. "Do you want to know?"</p>
<p>"No, Nixon, of course not," Sveta deadpanned.</p>
<p>They all broke into smiles at her joke. But as Harry just nudged Nixon, he continued on. "Right. Easy Company, prepare to welcome Lieutenant Thomas Meehan of Baker."</p>
<p>"Meehan," Winters said. He nodded. "He's a good leader."</p>
<p>Harry agreed immediately. "Yeah, it'll be interesting to see how the NCOs like him."</p>
<p>"Anyone is better than Sobel," Sveta reminded him. "Guarnere might take issue though."</p>
<p>Harry laughed at her. "What is it with you and him?"</p>
<p>Sveta sat up straighter. She shook her head. "I don't appreciate his lack of self-censorship."</p>
<p>Nixon just started laughing at her, and she forced herself not to glare. She didn't know the man across from her, this new Lieutenant Compton, and she had no interest in showing him more than she needed to.</p>
<p>"Guarnere won't have a problem with him," Winters countered. "Meehan's from Philadelphia."</p>
<p>Of course he was. How many paratroopers from Pennsylvania were there going to be? She just sipped at her lukewarm coffee in silence as talk turned to Compton. He spoke freely, without care. He mentioned his American football career at his university, his time in OCS. Then he went on to talk all about baseball, which got Harry and Winters invested as well.</p>
<p>When a runner came for them twenty minutes later, she'd just about had it with sports talk. First Sergeant Evans came up, a bit out of breath. He nodded. "Sirs." After Winters asked him what he needed, he continued on, "Major Strayer wants the officers of Easy Company at the Headquarters tent."</p>
<p>"We're on our way," Winters told him.</p>
<p>As Evans disappeared from the Officers' mess tent, they all fidgeted in their seats, finishing food or drinks. Nixon said he'd join them, despite not being from Easy. Before long, Sveta found herself walking behind them on their way across the Upottery airfield.</p>
<p>Endless rows of green canvas tents dotted the area of Upottery. It was almost like a hive of bees, with enlisted and officers moving to and fro, in and out of tents or hastily thrown together shacks. Sveta found it too loud. But that was the nature of war: loud, chaotic, disorganized. Like the cities she'd grown up in, really.</p>
<p>They reached a large tent that had been built as a temporary headquarters for the 2nd Battalion. opening the wood frame door, they found Strayer standing with Lieutenant Meehan. Sveta had only met him in passing, as with most of the other 506th officers, especially the ones not in 2nd Battalion. But he seemed kind when she'd met him.</p>
<p>Strayer caught sight of them and nodded. "Lieutenants. I'm sure some of you know Lieutenant Meehan already?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Winters nodded.</p>
<p>"Meehan will be taking over as Company Commander, in place of Captain Sobel," he said. Then he paused. "Where's Lieutenant Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>"She wasn't with us, sir," Winters told him. "She had an engagement with Second Platoon this morning."</p>
<p>Strayer sighed. "Nixon, you're not in Easy. Go find her and bring her to Easy's grid."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>Sveta watched Nixon leave the tent before turning back to Strayer and Meehan. Major Strayer didn't skip another beat. "Winters, I want you to show Meehan to Easy's HQ. Get him set up with the officers. All of you have a briefing at 1700 hours in Lecture Hall 3."</p>
<p>"Sir."</p>
<p>"Dismissed."</p>
<p>Major Strayer turned away from them, heading over to a second table where a couple of the officers from Fox Company waited for him. Sveta turned to Meehan. He had a smile, a genuine one, and was shaking hands with Winters.</p>
<p>"Congratulations on the promotion, sir," Welsh added. He also shook Meehan's hand. "Couldn't have come at a better time for us."</p>
<p>"So I've heard," Meehan said, his smiling growing a bit. "Rumors of Captain's Sobel's incompetence made their way all the way to Baker."</p>
<p>Winters grimaced. Then he turned to Compton. "This is Lieutenant Buck Compton, fresh in from OCS."</p>
<p>"Sir." Compton saluted, but Meehan extended a hand instead. After shaking it, he smiled. "Pleasure to work with you."</p>
<p>"I hope so." Then he turned to Sveta. "Lieutenant Svetlana Samsonova, correct?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Sveta nodded. "Soviet liaison, assigned to First Platoon."</p>
<p>He nodded. Then he flashed her another smile. He certainly smiled quite a bit. "We ran into each other a few times during training at Mackall, didn't we?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," she said, offering him a smile in return. She had to play this right. Play nice. "I have heard only good things." She'd heard not much, to be fair. But they had been good things. "My comrade, Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna, serves in Second Platoon."</p>
<p>"You served in the Red Army?"</p>
<p>"As snipers, yes."</p>
<p>Meehan nodded. As they moved out into the open air again, the cloud cover starting to give way to sun, he continued his questions. "Have you seen combat?"</p>
<p>"Yes. We did about a month on the line in the Battle of Smolensk, in 1941." Sveta gritted her teeth. Interrogations. She hated them. "We escaped south, going from Moscow and then to Stalingrad where we were then sent to join the western Allies."</p>
<p>"Must've been a long trek."</p>
<p>Long trek. Sveta restrained herself from either scoffing or rolling her eyes. She could feel Compton, Winters, and Welsh all listening with interest. She had to give them something. And it couldn't be sarcasm. So as Winters led them through rows of tents, she just sighed.</p>
<p>"Yes, it was. We ended up spending time in Tangier before a member of the OSS got us into Gibraltar, and then England." Sveta paused. "We spent time here before being sent to America to join the Paratroopers. I suppose they figured our experience in battle could help you." She felt bitterness creeping in. "Of course, that was dependent on how the Americans decided to see us."</p>
<p>She left it at that. Winters paused, clearly catching her meaning, and Welsh cleared his throat a bit, perhaps out of nervousness. Meehan and Compton had no clue about the struggles she and Zhanna had faced.</p>
<p>"I want to meet all the men by the end of the day," Meehan said. He turned to all of them as they came to a stop before a small tent. "This my tent?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir." Winters nodded. "Once you've settled in, we'll go find the platoons."</p>
<p>"First is in a VD Lecture," Harry told them. "Should be reporting back here in the next hour."</p>
<p>"Good," Meehan said, nodding. He smiled at them. "Come get me when they're together."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>As Meehan dismissed them, Winters hanging behind to help as the XO, Sveta followed Harry. She didn't speak to Compton even though he joined them. She didn't have the energy for that. She had too much on her mind, too many moving parts to deal with. Maybe she could find Zhanna, bring her up to speed on Meehan's arrival.</p>
<p>"I'll find you later," she told Harry. "Send a runner for me when First finishes their lecture."</p>
<p>"Right." He nodded and took a drink from his canteen. "If you find good vodka, send it my way. I'm still unimpressed."</p>
<p>She snorted out a laugh. Then she turned to Compton. "Lieutenant," she said, nodding to him.</p>
<p>"A pleasure to meet you!" he told her.</p>
<p>Sveta looked at him again. He seemed honest. But fair faces could hide fell intentions. Still, she couldn't point to anything in particular. So after a small nod, she turned and left them for her tent.</p>
<p>Hopefully, they would get more information at their briefing at 1700 that night. The drop into, well, wherever couldn't be far off. She hoped it wasn't. She itched to jump back into the mainland. Every step East meant one step closer to home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. ...lying in secret...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Allying herself with Buck Compton proved to be the most advantageous move Zhanna had made since her American boots had touched British soil. She needed a shadow to slink into, a shadow that the owner was trusted by the officers, liked by the enlisted, and disliked by Nixon. The athletic Californian and the perpetually tipsy intelligence officer gave each other a wide berth, providing Zhanna the space she required to prepare herself. They stood on the cusp of an invasion. It gaped like a yawning mouth, ready to swallow her whole, filled with the nightmares and rattling of machine guns.</p>
<p>The jump was close. Everyone knew it. Everyone could feel it. Buck knew something, something that had been passed between the officers. The American officers, that is. Zhanna didn't pursue the hidden secret, she had too many of her own to reckon with.</p>
<p>The lock left open on her mind and memories of Russia would lurk in the corner of her eyes, like a ghost. Two figures floating between rows of tents, like the alleyways of home, like they were her parents, still watching over her. Still there but still not safe to touch, to hug, to hold. So Zhanna kept her distance and kept pushing. The river kept pushing. But the ghosts weren't bringing back just memories. They brought back old fears, adding to the anxiety that mixed with the fog hanging over the causeways.</p>
<p>Rumours started to spiral among the ranks as intelligence drifted across the channel, news of German aggression and Polish resistance. Nixon told Welsh, who then told Buck. And so it went, down like a trickle of rain on a windowpane down to Zhanna. Zhanna, whose Polish heritage couldn't be confirmed, whose Jewish faith had already bruised her pride and jaw. Zhanna, who couldn't be known as anything but Russian and even that was dangerous.</p>
<p>The Poles were dying, the Germans were thriving and Zhanna would be jumping into the midst of it all in a matter of time. No one knew the hour nor the day and Zhanna didn't know the end. But the river of life pulled her further and pushed her closer to that European smudge of coastline. Where she would only ever be the enemy.</p>
<p>Buck's shadow couldn't keep that fear at bay. He wouldn't be able to keep that nightmare from being a reality. Though he promised to jump beside her. Though he promised that they would stick together. Those promises were empty, though the sentiment was still there. As they readied for the jump, the day of days that was to change or end their lives, Buck and Zhanna stuck close together. Sveta had been like one of those ghosts, flicking in and out of sight. For a few moments, Zhanna toyed with the idea of finding her, looping her arm through her friend's but then the Russian had disappeared and Zhanna was left alone in the sea of Americans.</p>
<p>"No jump tonight."</p>
<p>So it had been postponed, the inevitable. The moment when Zhanna would face the fears that she hadn't fully realized since leaving Stalingrad. She would be standing on enemy territory, Europe having bowed to the Germans' military. She would become, what her parents had tried to avoid. A piece on their chessboard.</p>
<p>The other men were still willing followers, marching from the blacktop of the causeway back to the rows of tents where they sat dumbly, watching a clattering film on a projector. Like drugged animals, they were peaceful and content to just wait until orders called them into the planes and out of the sky but Zhanna's mind couldn't let her sit numbly. She couldn't. They had gathered their gear and had said their prayers, signed away their lives for money to their families but Zhanna couldn't sit and await death.</p>
<p>A woman in the battlefield caused enough concern. She had had nightmares of being caught by a German and attacked, because of her sex. The clattering of the projector was an echo of the machine guns that had rattled over her head. Blood had stained her palms or was that now sweat? She shivered, though her layers were firmly in place and the heat of being packed in a tent next to Buck sent a trickle of sweat down her spine. The silver chain tightened around her throat and Zhanna clawed at her neck, trying to loosen it. She was freezing and not breathing. Her fingers went numb and her lips went cold. Icy breath touched her flushed neck.</p>
<p>Nixon couldn't know her true name, Polyakova. The American army had gotten a Russian sniper and Zhanna couldn't be anything else. The Germans couldn't know her faith or heritage. They could only capture a Russian sniper, loyal and redblooded. Zhanna wasn't and she carried a reminder of that everywhere she went.</p>
<p>She was a piece on their chessboard, a weapon in their arsenal. Nothing but the sniper rifle in her arms and that Star of David, that family, that name. They weren't her make or model.</p>
<p>"Where are you going?" Buck hissed, as Zhanna shot to her feet though the weight of her realization threatened to pull her down to the ground. Buck was a good ally. A good friend. They had spent much of the waiting in each other's company. But he didn't need to carry the burdens that Zhanna held. She had too much, she now realized.</p>
<p>"Out," Was her reply. Short. Simple. But there was so much hidden.</p>
<p>Out. She needed to throw out her unnecessary burdens. Zhanna had to lighten the load and there was only one thing she could part with.</p>
<p>Buck stood up, pushing through the rows of soldiers so she had a clear path between the stretched out legs and abandoned kit. The light of the projector danced in her eyes as she pushed her way to the aisle and burst into the cooling twilight.</p>
<p>She wandered the rows of tents for a few moments. Just a few. To give her eyes time to adjust from the dark of the tent to the cool blue tone of the outdoors. To find a place to lay to rest her burdens. An altar, of sorts.</p>
<p>The movement of the camp was duller than usual. The previous excitement and anticipation had been almost too much to bear. The machine guns and the Germans had danced like ghosts between the tents, with the silhouettes of her parents, picking up on the intensity and the promise of a jump. The jump would be soon. Soon.</p>
<p>And now it was postponed. A screeching halt to everything in this camp, in this army. And the soldiers were just now recovering. Picking up the pieces and moving on, like little ants. Off to some job. Off to fulfill some order, follow some order. Even to death, they followed some order.</p>
<p>Her eyes now used to the dim light and the rising moon, Zhanna slithered through the tents, past her familiar square of grass she had used for sanctuary. She hadn't cleaned her gun yet since that morning but she knew that wasn't what needed to be done. Zhanna could suppress the urge to pull apart her gun for the familiarity and the stability. She needed to lighten her load.</p>
<p>The expanse of black asphalt was the road that would take them to Europe. And for Zhanna she would be leaving a piece of herself here in Britain.</p>
<p>Zhanna had been lucky. Life had seen it fit to leave a piece of Agata with her, to follow and protect her through the fall of Stalingrad and her time in Europe. Sveta had no such connection to Veronika. Sveta didn't hold onto her mother in any way but memories. Zhanna held onto Agata with that little chain, tying each other together. She was tethered to her mother. Her faith. Her heritage. Her little silver star.</p>
<p>"We'll be back,"</p>
<p>They said they would be back. Agata and Casimir would be back. Zhanna had imagined a thousand different scenarios, written out a million different ways she would give back that little charm. She would always give it back to her mother, after a warm embrace and a few tears had been shed at their happy reunion. But Zhanna couldn't wait. Zhanna couldn't live those scenes in actuality. In reality, if Zhanna was found with a Star of David on her body, she would be dead.</p>
<p>The Nazis had worked with the NKVD. She had heard whispers in Stalingrad. She had heard rumours, here in England. It was too much of a risk. Too much of a burden. Zhanna knew how to survive. That meant sacrifice. That meant parting with the last piece of her mother.</p>
<p>Her fingers trembled as she unclasped the silver chain. It slipped through her fingers and fell into the dirt. Silver against the black mud. Her mother below her and her future above her, flying amongst the low hanging clouds.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>Meehan. Commanding officer of Easy Company. Surely he had better things to do than wander around the tents of camp. They both should have.</p>
<p>"Sir?" She turned taking two steps away from her mother's necklace and</p>
<p>"You aren't with Lieutenant Compton?" It was common to see them together, Zhanna supposed.</p>
<p>"I needed some air, sir," Zhanna admitted.</p>
<p>"We'll get a lot of that soon," Meehan mused, looking up at the sky. The sky they would be flying in.</p>
<p>There it was again. That word. Soon. Soon. It was always soon. But never soon enough. She would see her parents soon. She would be home soon. But that day, that soon, had never come.</p>
<p>"Are you ready, Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>Zhanna's American boot heel dug Agata's necklace deeper into the dirt, burying her Polish mother into British soil. "Ready as I'll ever be, sir,"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. ...fall off the world...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dick Winters | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>The day of days had been a long time coming. Dick had felt the pressure of this jump long before the turbulence of the plane jostled him and his platoon. This moment, the breath tight in his chest and the planes in the V formation suspended in the night sky around them, had been more than three years in the making.</p><p>If all went according to plan they would be dropped in the midst of enemy territory and reconvene. Looking around at the troopers' faces, Dick could only offer a bare smile. They were all jostled, in nerves and in body. It would be a few hours, sitting on this long bench, staring at the faces of men he had been training with and had led for nearly three years. This was it, the moment they had been preparing for. When Dick had first enlisted he hadn't pictured being in a plane on his way to Europe. He enlisted out of circumspection, never intending to be in for more than a few years.</p><p>They would be up soon, those initial years. Where would Dick be? If all went according to plan, he would join up with the rest of the men. His parachute would deploy, he wouldn't be caught in enemy fire. If all went according to plan, they would have the element of surprise.</p><p>Nothing led to this plan, the moment his boots would touch foreign soil under fire that had been a crutch and a goal during the long hours of training, had gone according to plan. The army made a good show of being prepared. This operation had been years in the making but it all was put on hold in a single day. The day of days had been a furtive idea, lost in the fog that had claimed their first attempt at fulfilling destiny.</p><p>The night of nights hadn't been that night. It had been too overcast, clouds hanging like the anticipation in the air. Men assembled and gear donned, they had been turned back. No jump. Not that night. They were filed into tents and sat down on rickety folding chairs that trembled in preparation for the shaking of the airplane. The film clattering on the projector hadn't soothed Dick's nerves. He had been told of adrenaline but no one had prepared him for shaking hands and pounding drumbeat in his chest.</p><p>And Dick had tried to keep good spirits, tried not to be discouraged. So much rode on the success of this operation. Lieutenants Casmirovna and Samsonova had this as their only chance to return home.</p><p>He hadn't seen either of them since the jump had been called off. They must have been lurking in the foggy twilight of the airstrip, somewhere between the tents and the plane's wings. Dick wasn't sure what he was doing, sitting here in this tent, watching some film that he had little interest in. He needed to stand. To move. Sitting was only causing the tension to grow.</p><p>Pushing through the flaps of the tent, Dick had tugged on his gloves with a little difficulty. Glancing around, his boots were silent on the soft dirt as he started between rows of tents. Though he hadn't seen him, Dick wasn't surprised to hear Lew's voice from behind a pile of crates.</p><p>"I think it's clearing up,"</p><p>Dick glanced around. It wasn't.</p><p>"You think it's clearing up?"</p><p>"No," Dick had said.</p><p>"I think it's clearing up," Nixon persisted. Dick didn't say anything, just nodded and adjusted the leather of his gloves. "How are your men?"</p><p>"They'll be fine," Dick said. Lieutenant Casmirovna had said they would be ready. Casmirovna, who had been missing for most of the afternoon. Dick was sure that Compton was with her. The two had turned into unlikely companions. Buck's charisma had thawed Casmirovna, though still shy, and she had found another shadow to lurk in.</p><p>Nix and Dick had continued towards the causeway. Nix rambled about time zones and drinks, mentioning something about a theatre. Dick didn't really pay attention. He had recalled the letter his penpal back in Lancaster, DeEtta, had written.. He had never replied. Dick was about to jump into Europe, Normandy, if Meehan's calculations and hidden compass had been right, and he hadn't written her back.</p><p>"A civilized place for civilized men," Nix said, as they leaned against the hood of a jeep. They both let out a huff of amusement, managing little else. Laughing was too much for this somber atmosphere.</p><p>"Shoulda been born earlier, Nix," Dick had said. That thought had been a constant one in his mind. If he had been born earlier, he never would have to face this.</p><p>"What and miss all this?" Nix said, flicking open his lighter. "We'll go to Chicago, I'll take you there,"</p><p>"Yeah, we'll see," Dick sighed. The sky was heavy with grey, tendrils of fog hanging down among them. He didn't want to be hopeful or plan for anything right now. Not when everything had been so unexpected.</p><p>Nix looked like he wanted to say more but his attention was caught by something over Dick's shoulder.</p><p>"Hey look," His words were muffled around his cigarette. "There's our little Russian friend."</p><p>Zhanna Casmirovna could move without being seen, a trait that was sure to be valuable in the sniper field but it was uncanny among allies. She didn't seem to notice them, though, as Casmirovna slipped through the tents. It seemed she was fixed on one goal.</p><p>"Something off about her," Nix said.</p><p>Dick nodded. Nixon was always scrutinizing the Russian lieutenants, with more interest then strictly needed for reports. He liked a good puzzle and Casmirovna and Samsonova provided an excellent challenge. Nixon could try to solve it but Dick had a piece that shed more than enough light onto Lieutenant Casmirovna's comfortable shadows. Dick hadn't sought it out, or even tried to solve the puzzle himself.</p><p>Though the rattling of the plane made it difficult, Dick slipped his fingers through the webbing to his breast pocket where a length of silver chain curled, like a small snake. Casmirovna had stalked through the tents with that inhuman skill. She glanced over her shoulder, fighting a battle in her body language. Zhanna paused to unlatch something from around her neck.</p><p>Dick had never housed more than a polite interest in the Russian snipers' lives. They did their job, served their purpose and followed their orders. He followed his own orders. But Casmirovna's words had stuck with him, her thoughts on orders had pulled at the fraying edges of his mind. "You follow orders until you can't anymore." She had turned the NCOs into a mutiny. Her blue eyes had brightened at the mention of winning a war, sparking with something like gratitude. Casmirovna spoke a different language, the dialect of survival and it had started to rub off on Dick.</p><p>He had strapped it close, tied it to his webbing, and carried it with him onto the plane, now rattling around him. Dick didn't consider himself a master of it but he had picked up enough. He had also been around Nixon enough to pick up some nonverbal tricks. Nix was convinced that people could be read, and if watched long enough could leave little pieces of themselves open. Nix had been waiting for the snipers to slip up, for a piece of the women behind the rifles to be revealed. He hadn't paid attention when Casmirovna had let slip, and fall.</p><p>Pressed against his beating heart was a Star of David no bigger than Dick's fingernail. Impossibly delicate, it hadn't looked right, sitting there in the dirt where Casmirovna had dropped it after a moment's hesitation. He had waited until Nix had left to pocket the necklace.</p><p>If it was important enough for Casmirovna to leave behind after traveling across the world, the night before she would drop back into Europe and return home Dick couldn't leave it in the dirt. A Star of David in the mud.</p><p>Leaning his head back against the rattling side of the plane, Dick wanted to close his eyes. They had all spent a long time preparing for this jump. But when the plane jolted to the left and the go light had flickered on, Dick didn't feel as if it was enough time. They made it out of the plane, at least. The night wind whipped Dick in the face, smelling of smoke, fuel exhaust, and sea salt as a sudden weightlessness suspended him in the air. The only thing that pulled him towards the ground was the silver chain in his pocket.</p><p>Zhanna Casmirovna had said that the men would be ready when the time came. But would she?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And with this, we're taking a one week break! See you on January 2nd for the beginning of Part Two. Thanks for all the support.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. PART TWO: ...not that different, you and I...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PART TWO</p><p>"No sentimentality, comrade!"<br/>cried Snowball from whose wounds the blood was still dripping.<br/>"War is war. The only good human being is a dead one."</p><p>- George Orwell, Animal Farm</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>Her rifle disappeared with her leg bag. When the shells had been exploding all around her in reds and golds, she hadn’t realized the weight shift. But when she slammed into the ground between some trees, heart pounding in her chest like a drum, she found herself weaponless.</p><p>To her left roared a fire, the wreckage of a plane that had formed a burning clearing. To her right, Sveta heard the purr of a machine gun nest followed by the repeated thump of an anti-aircraft gun. German voices, nearly drowned out by the noise of war, sounded close.</p><p>Sveta knew fear. She’d known it for over a decade. She’d not had many friends besides Zhanna, but she had started to think of fear as one. And as she rolled her way into a thicket, she knew it again. Only this time she had to fear the shadows of Germans, not Russians.</p><p>She tried to breathe. Acrid smoke from the inferno nearby filled her lungs, and she smashed her face into her jacket. Heaving a cough, Sveta hoped, prayed to any being listening, that the surrounding cacophony would hide the noise.</p><p>Breathing became easier as she slipped through the trees, away from the burning wreckage and machine-gun nests. Soon she was picking her way through the thickets. She couldn’t have gone over ten minutes when she froze at a noise on her right.</p><p>“Flash!”</p><p>Sveta’s mind went blank. What was the response? All her years of English evaporated, replaced by panic. Moments later, a body crashed into hers. The American grabbed her, throwing her to the ground. Sveta cursed in Russian as her back hit a tree root.</p><p>The weight lifted off her chest. Sputtering, Sveta rolled over on her side. Everything hurt. Her head, her neck where the man had grabbed her, her back from the tree. Sveta coughed again. She choked on the air.</p><p>“Samsonova?”</p><p>Sveta used the tree to pull herself up. Clutching at her side, she glared out from under her helmet. No wonder it felt familiar, getting slammed into a tree root. She recognized the attacker immediately. “Speirs.”</p><p>“You didn’t give the countersign.”</p><p>Sveta rolled her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she looked around. No Germans had come running at their scuffle. “I forgot the English,” she admitted. Then she turned back to him. “Why’d you stop?”</p><p>“Before killing you?” He smirked. “Unless someone got really lost on the Eastern Front, the only two Russian women in Normandy are you and Casmirovna.”</p><p>Flawless logic.</p><p>“Got a weapon?” Speirs asked her.</p><p>Sveta shook her head. “I lost my rifle.” She’d lost her connection to Russia. For a moment, Sveta wondered why it didn’t bother her more. Zhanna would’ve been scrambling without the gun. “You?”</p><p>He just shook his head. “Come on.” Speirs went to lead. “Be careful.”</p><p>“Of the two of us, Speirs, who’s actually been in battle before,” she reminded him.</p><p>Even so, Sveta let him take point. They tried to stay low while the voices of Germans still sounded nearby. Smoke filled the air around them and they never escaped the roar of machine guns and anti-aircraft weapons as the sky lit up with explosions. Sveta held her breath as she watched the darkness break into flames.</p><p>Speirs’ hand touched her arm and she jolted back to reality. They’d reached a railroad. Two German voices came closer and Sveta understood Speirs’ hand. They crouched at the edge of the trees. They could see the men coming; guns in hand, side by side. Idiots. They shouldn’t have been speaking. Not only did it give away their position but also their allegiance.</p><p>Speirs put a finger to his lip. Suppressing an eye-roll, she followed his lead as he gestured to the two Germans. Sveta exhaled, silent and slow. They stood behind some trees about two feet off the tracks. Each footfall from the German boots made her heart leap into her throat. They came closer. Sveta held her breath.</p><p>As the men reached their hiding place, Sveta risked a glance at Speirs. He held her gaze. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the confidence in his eyes. She wished she had that. As the men took two more steps along the railway past them, she felt nerves creeping in.</p><p>Speirs nodded. Sveta crashed out of the bushes and grabbed the closer one. She couldn’t track Speirs in the chaos. The German shouted and she felt fingers clawing at her arms. But she held her hands around his neck. She squeezed. Still, he pried at her hands, drawing blood.</p><p>A kick to her shin made Sveta gasp. She dropped her grip and stumbled. A fist collided with her cheek. Sveta tasted blood. Without thinking, she dove forward and knocked into the soldier. He slammed into the ground, stilled. </p><p>Sveta tried to catch her breath where she knelt by his body. Even in the dark, she could see the trail of blood dripping from the Nazi’s head from where he’d slammed into the edge of the train tracks, helmet some feet away. It took a moment to catch her breath.</p><p>She stood back up. Her two braids had started to come loose and the strands caught in the blood now dripping from the corner of her mouth. “Shit,” she muttered. “Speirs?”</p><p>“Yeah.” It didn’t take long for him to come to stand level with her. He handed her a German rifle. “Here. Check him for ammo.”</p><p>She nodded. Having a gun made her feel a lot less vulnerable. But just as it had in Smolensk, being in the thick of battle was more comforting than sneaking around the shadows of Stalin’s estates. She pulled back the jacket of the man she’d killed, ignoring the glassy look in his open eyes.</p><p>A couple of papers in his breast pocket, a handful of cigarettes, and a bit of ammo became her spoils. She also found a knife in his boot. Armed at last, the shadows receded. Sveta couldn’t tell if it was the approaching dawn or her settling panic.</p><p>“We’ve got another few hours,” Speirs told her. “We need to follow the railroad, cross two bridges. Then across a field. Shouldn’t be difficult.”</p><p>Sveta nodded. She recognized the area from the briefing Nixon had given the officers. “We should hide the bodies,” Sveta told him.</p><p>After carefully looking around, he agreed. “Throw them in the trees. Looks like there’s a river down there.”</p><p>They wasted no time. After pushing the corpses down the small drop to the other side of the railroad, they started off along the route. The sounds of war faded the further they went. By the time the sun rose, they found themselves at the edge of a flooded field. Her nose scrunched.</p><p>“Lovely,” Sveta said. She tested the ground with her boot. “It’s mostly solid.” Only the buzzing of mosquitoes and flies interrupted the surrounding silence. After a few minutes, she turned to Speirs. “How are you enjoying the Mainland, Lieutenant?”</p><p>Speirs scoffed a bit. He turned right to look at her. “I’ve been here before. I was born in Scotland, Lieutenant.”</p><p>She hadn’t expected that one. So Sveta just nodded and looked around. The lack of people, friend or foe, unnerved her. Normandy didn’t feel like home at all. Too hot, too muggy, too wet. Her palms sweated against the rifle.</p><p>“How’s your rib?” Speirs asked. At her questioning look, he shrugged. “Didn’t I break it last time, Samsonova?”</p><p>“No,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “You didn’t. You bruised it. I do so appreciate the concern.”</p><p>She didn’t miss the smirk on his face as he turned to check the left. Each step took concentration, though, as they reached more flooded pools. Sveta didn’t want to swim. So with each squelch of her boots, she just silently begged for any god listening to spare her from falling in a pool.</p><p>“How’s your face?” she asked him. When he looked at her as confused as she’d been, she also smirked. “As I recall, I almost broke your jaw, Speirs.”</p><p>He didn’t answer. She counted that as a win. They continued on mostly in silence for the next hour, the sky changing from all different shades of gold, red, and blue. When her feet hit dry, solid ground, she could’ve shouted for joy. But she didn’t. Instead, she followed Speirs as he moved through a small grove of trees.</p><p>The road ran past the other side. It didn’t take long for them to find allies. A handful of guards stood chatting with two prisoners. Beyond them, paratroopers trickled towards the town in small groups. Sveta wondered if any of Easy had shown up yet.</p><p>The first person they saw was Lieutenant Compton. Zhanna seemed to like him, but Sveta still didn’t really have an opinion beyond mild distrust. He caught sight of her and walked over. </p><p>Compton smiled. “Hey, Lieutenant, glad you made it.” He gave a sigh of relief as they came to stand level with each other. </p><p>Sveta just looked to Speirs on her right and nodded. He nodded back before walking away to find his own company. Only then did she turn to Compton. The oil and paint that had been smothered all over his face had worn off some, but his blue eyes stood out striking against what was still left. He looked no worse for wear, just a bit tired.</p><p>“Anyone else show up yet?” she asked.</p><p>Compton released a long breath. “Just a few. Liebgott’s here. Ranney, Petty, Plesha, and Hendrix.” He shook his head. “There aren’t many here at all, across any of the companies. There’s us, about fifteen from Dog, maybe twenty from Fox. And that group of civilians over there, members of the French Resistance.”</p><p>Sveta followed where he pointed. What the hell were civilians doing in a war zone, even if they were Resistance? She found them talking to Strayer by the side of a house.</p><p>There were four, two men and two women. They held stolen German weapons, Karabiner 98ks by the look of it. One of the two women, a blonde around Harry’s height, had a Nazi sniper scope attached to hers. She and the men wore darker clothing, mud and dirt caked on their faces in some cheap attempt at camouflage. Sveta looked at the men closer. The dark-haired one looked to be speaking to Strayer through the blonde girl. He and the blond man stood so close with her that she guessed some sort of relation, maybe blood. </p><p>The other woman stood out much more. She held a K-98k as well, but where the other five were at least dressed in civvies that might fit in with the forests, she wore dress clothes. Slacks, a blouse, and nice boots were caked with mud. Her dark curly hair looked a disaster, with some twigs sticking out.</p><p>Hardly any help. Sveta turned back to Compton. He seemed about as depressed as she felt at the lack of force in Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.</p><p>“You didn’t happen to see Lieutenant Meehan in your travels, did you?” Compton asked her.</p><p>They moved over to Easy’s meager gathering of enlisted. As she told him no, Sveta surveyed the troops. Liebgott caught sight of her first. He nodded to her, but said nothing. Good enough. Sveta turned away. The resistance group had finished with Strayer. They followed him into what she assumed was a Battalion HQ.</p><p>“Hey! Easy Company!”</p><p>Sveta turned back around at the sound of Liebgott’s half shout-half laugh. Even she couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief and flash a small smile as a group from Second Platoon came strutting up led by Dick Winters. Behind him came Toye, Guarnere, Wynn, Lipton, and a handful of other non-E Company men.</p><p>Compton let out a short breath as Winters made his way over to them at a table that had somehow survived the shelling. He nodded. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Winters nodded back, but looked around. His shoulders were tense, eyes darting everywhere taking in the surrounding scene. “What’s the hold-up?”</p><p>“Not sure,” Compton said. As he replied, a massive explosion rocked the town, sending all the men into a momentary panic. They looked at the sky, but saw nothing. Compton sighed. “Five will get you ten it has something to do with that.”</p><p>Sveta scoffed under her breath. As Dick agreed with him, they all surveyed the space. Again, Sveta found herself demoralized at the sheer lack of strength they’d gathered. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred men in all of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, and a good portion of those were wounded. The town itself was in shambles.</p><p>“It’s good to see you, Dick,” Compton added.</p><p>Winters paused and glanced at him. Then at her. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, same for both of you.” He paused. “Lieutenant, have you seen Welsh or Casmirovna?”</p><p>“No,” she said. Sveta felt fear clenching her heart. “You?”</p><p>He shook his head. Then he turned back to the area around them. “What’s the situation?”</p><p>“Not good,” Compton told him. “Ninety percent of the men are still unaccounted for, and we’re the only officers so far.”</p><p>Winters asked about Meehan. He seemed to be the most popular topic of conversation, but as he had eventually told her, Compton said Meehan was missing, along with his entire plane. “You know, if he is missing, wouldn’t that put you in line to be the next commander of Easy?”</p><p>Winters paused. He turned to Compton, gaze unwavering. Sveta supposed there were worse men that could’ve been in charge of Easy, if Meehan really was dead. She respected Winters. But he hardly looked thrilled, eventually staring back down at the table where some maps had been strewn haphazardly.</p><p>Footsteps behind them made all three turn. Speirs wandered past. As Winters greeted him, he nodded, and then turned to Sveta. “Here, American weapon.” He held out one of the standard American rifles to her. “It’s better than the Kraut one.”</p><p>Sveta took it, laying her German rifle on the table behind them. “Thank you.”</p><p>“How many men have Dog Company got assembled?” Winters asked him.</p><p>Speirs shrugged, chewing on what looked like gum. “A handful.” Then he glanced down the road. “Maybe twenty?”</p><p>“You’re the only officer that made it?”</p><p>He nodded again. “So far.” As Compton threw a pack of cigarettes at Liebgott not far away, he traced it with his eyes. “Still waiting for orders. Hey, you got cigarettes?”</p><p>Compton glanced at him. He sighed, then shrugged, and dug into his pocket for another pack. “Here.”</p><p>Sveta almost laughed as Speirs didn’t miss a beat before grabbing the whole thing and walking away. She couldn’t suppress her smile. Compton just looked aghast. “Hey! Keep the pack,” he muttered. Then he turned to Sveta and glanced at her. “Cigarettes aren’t going to be easy to come by!”</p><p>With a small scoff, she shook her head. The three officers moved to rejoin the enlisted. Leaning against an embankment, Winters and Compton got settled in. But Sveta felt too antsy. Where was Zhanna? It didn’t escape her that she felt less scared in a war zone than back in civilization where Beria might be around any corner, but not knowing where her one and only friend had ended up made her beyond tense.</p><p>“Hey, Lieutenant, good to see you made it.”</p><p>Sveta turned to her left. Lipton had come up, shoulders slumped but eyes alert. He nodded at her. She offered him a tight smile back. “Thank you. Have you seen Lieutenant Casmirovna?”</p><p>“No, ma’am.”</p><p>The sound of hurried footsteps made them both turn back down the road. Malarkey scrambled up to them, his skin beneath the camouflage even more pale than usual. He plopped down beside Toye just as she saw Winters leaving the area. As Speirs stalked by, Malarkey watched him, wide-eyed. Sveta narrowed her eyes. She watched Speirs move off and then made her way to the enlisted.</p><p>“See a ghost, Malarkey?” she asked.</p><p>Malarkey, Toye, and Wynn looked up at her. Was that fear? It was in Malarkey’s face. She knew what fear looked like. His eyes were wide, his skin clamming, breathing strained. Toye seemed more hesitant than anything else, and Wynn confused.</p><p>“No, ma’am,” he sputtered. “I’m fine.”</p><p>She shrugged. A lie, but everyone lied, to themselves as much as to others. After taking a moment to look around the compound, trying to see if any more of Easy trickled in with the other men, she turned back to them. “Any of you hear news of Lieutenant Casmirovna?” They all shook their heads. She sighed again.</p><p>“You fought on the Eastern Front, right Lieutenant?” asked Lipton.</p><p>Sveta hadn’t realized he’d rejoined them. But she nodded, looking at him. “In area east of Moscow.”</p><p>“Did you learn anything?” Lipton asked. “Anything that might help us?”</p><p>It was interesting, having the men who had spent a year belittling her for being Russian now asking her the right questions. But there wasn’t much to say. You couldn’t teach survival. It came from experience. So she just sighed.</p><p>“Don’t get caught,” Sveta told them. “I don’t know if the Germans will do to Americans what they did to us, but if they do, you’d be better off dead than a POW. They think Russian lives are worth nothing. You may be protected by your “Geneva Convention,” but it would be better not to risk it.”</p><p>They didn’t respond. Malarkey looked even more disturbed, and next to him, Toye chewed at his lip in thought. Even Guarnere and Liebgott seemed to have been listening, as they watched her carefully. Sveta turned to them, daring them to say something stupid. For the first time in their entire lives, both stayed silent.</p><p>“Easy Company! Gather up around me!”</p><p>They turned at Winters’ call. He beckoned to them, and in almost no time, the enlisted were following him into a barn nearby. They found a dozen men inside, some smoking cigarettes, others cleaning guns. Winters led them to a central table. On the far side, Sveta again saw the two men and single blonde woman from the Resistance group chatting, though with the racket she couldn’t translate the French.</p><p>As she turned back to Winters, she found him explaining their objective. The resistance group had scouted out a place called Brécourt Manor. They’d stationed four German 88s there, with a few machine-gun nests. Their targets were the beach landings. Easy Company had been tasked with destroying them.</p><p>“We'll take some TNT along with us to spike the guns. Lipton, your responsibility.” Winters turned to him at the right. When Lipton nodded, he continued on. “Liebgott, you'll take the first machine gun with Petty, A-gunner. Plesha, Hendrix, you take the other.” He nodded to himself and then turned to her. “Samsonova, find some high ground and provide what support you can. Right. Who does that leave?”</p><p>Sveta nodded to him as the ones left raised their hands. Malarkey, Toye, Guarnere, and Compton would join Winters in the main assault. Once they had their assignments and gathered their gear, they moved to Brécourt Manor.</p><p>The closer they got to the target, the quieter the world seemed to become. Instead of a constant hum of activity, the only noise was the wind in the trees and the rhythmic fire from the 88s. A line of trees and shrubs offered them cover as they slunk towards the attack zone. Sveta stood with Lipton and Ranney. Compton and Winters moved to the line of trees to get a better look.</p><p>She surveyed the area. Several trees would offer a decent vantage point. She’d be exposed if she took too many shots though. Maybe if she set up near one of the machine guns, maybe Liebgott’s as he was closest to her, they could draw attention from her sharpshooting.</p><p>Sveta looked down the barrel of her new American weapon. The lack of any scope bothered her. It would be much harder to get perfect shots. But she supposed it would have to do.</p><p>Winters came up to her. “Keep out of sight and take out who you can. But if you can’t get a clean shot, just keep your head down,” he hissed. “Once we take the first gun, you should have less to worry about.”</p><p>She nodded. “Right.”</p><p>After nodding back, he hurried down the line to speak to the next group. Sveta felt her heart racing. Her hands trembled as she stared down the gun barrel again, trying to judge the distances to the Germans. She could just see them through the trees and shrubs. Anticipation flooded her entire body.</p><p>She remembered this. This was the calm before the storm. The watching, the waiting. A false peace. Any moment, Winters would order the machine guns to open fire, and all hell would break loose.</p><p>To her right, Lipton and Ranney moved off. To her left, Liebgott and Plesha situated their machine gun. Sveta took a deep breath. She glanced a bit left of them and picked her spot, a moderately tall tree that had a decent nest of branches she could use as a platform. Zhanna had always been better in trees than she had. Perks of being small. But it would have to do.</p><p>The machine guns exploded to life. Their roaring purr filled the air, followed by the shouts of Germans. Sveta watched as Easy got to work. She wasted no time doing the same, dashing the few meters to the tree she’d chosen. Sveta scaled it, slipping at first but regaining her balance. In mere moments, she’d hidden herself among the branches and looked down the barrel of her gun.</p><p>A flash of grey and Sveta pulled the trigger. One down. She took a deep breath. She had to pick her moments carefully, or they’d hone in on her position. Shouts to her right distracted her. She almost smiled. Lipton and Ranney had also scaled trees. Had they learned that from Zhanna in their maneuvers? But they didn’t understand that you had to play the part of a sniper if you wanted to be safe there. That meant stealth.</p><p>Sveta looked down her gun again. The assault team still hadn’t infiltrated the trenches. Sveta saw another moment, and pulled her trigger, and a second German collapsed.</p><p>Finally, the trenches exploded with screams and scattered dirt. She turned her attention there, hoping to see what Winters had done. But it quickly became clear that even from her high vantage point, they were too obscured. So she turned to the Germans again.</p><p>There wasn’t much to shoot at until they scrambled out of the trench to dash to safety. Then she saw her chance. Three more collapsed from her gun. The gunfire to her right stopped, and she saw Lipton and Ranney scramble from their trees to get the TNT to Winters.</p><p>Now it was up to her. Sveta tried to slow her breathing. The surrounding air stilled as she blocked out the meaningless voices. Sveta knew war. She knew battle. She’d survived a month of it already. And if she died in battle, at least she wouldn’t die from her own Korovin pistol.</p><p>Another German collapsed from her shot. Why hadn’t they moved on from the first gun? Sveta narrowed her eyes as she tried to see what was happening. They still huddled together behind their prize. Something was wrong.</p><p>Just as she considered joining them, they moved again. After that, the battle seemed to speed up. They took the second gun in no time, and Sveta continued to pick off what stragglers she could. When a Captain and a private hurried to help the paratroopers, she lowered her gun and watched.</p><p>They’d just about taken the third gun. Private Malarkey had dashed out into no-man's-land like an idiot, and Sveta had saved his hide by taking out two Germans on the other side. But other than that, things were going well.</p><p>They lingered at the third gun longer than she liked. Sveta hesitated. The Germans were out of her range at this point. Sveta made the executive decision to join them. As she scrambled down the tree, she found herself face to face with Speirs, body covered in extra ammo.</p><p>He nearly shot her, holding his gun up before he recognized who she was. “Lieutenant!”</p><p>“Are you joining Winters?” she demanded.</p><p>Behind him, three Dog Company men looked at her with poorly hidden skepticism. But he didn’t hesitate. He nodded. “Come on.”</p><p>Sveta fell into line right behind him. She showed them straight to the nearest trench. As they moved through the trenches, dodging dead Germans, no one spoke. The sounds of war were close, but not enough to scare her. They scrambled back out, dashed a few meters across the grass, and then slid into the gun emplacement where Winters was holding out. Speirs wasted no time in handing over his extra ammunition.</p><p>“Mind if D Company takes the next gun?” Speirs shouted.</p><p>Sveta looked at him. Winters just shrugged and gave him the OK. But Sveta looked back at the fourth gun. The Germans would massacre them if they went through the trench. It would act as a bottleneck. So as Speirs moved past her, she grabbed his arm.</p><p>“Go along the outside, draw their fire.” She pointed to the space up and around. “I’ll go through the middle.”</p><p>Speirs only hesitated a moment, looking at her in surprise, before he nodded. As he called for Dog to follow him, Sveta let him go. She released a strained breath. The pounding of the fourth gun continued on, the purr of their machine gun nest staying ever present.</p><p>Sveta moved down the trench, crouching low. As soon as she heard the Germans shouting, she moved in. She couldn’t understand their words, but fear didn’t need a translation. Their high pitch and rapid speech said enough.</p><p>One of Speirs’ men went down. Sveta lobbed a grenade when the Germans weren’t looking, and the area quieted for a moment. She moved in, gun high. But Speirs beat her to it. They converged in the center, both of them with their rifles trained on the final German that Speirs had just killed.</p><p>“Excellent work,” he commented.</p><p>She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the glassy look on the German’s face. Eyes like that always reminded too much of home. She looked at Speirs. “Likewise.”</p><p>Speirs wasted no time in signaling to Easy. Sveta just moved around the gun. It wasn’t an 88, it was a 105. The area should’ve been crowded with Germans. Evidently only a small regiment had been left behind to secure it. Their mistake.</p><p>No sooner than she’d bent down to look at the uniforms of the dead Germans than a machine gun opened fire. Sveta crashed down into the ground, covering her head. Speirs joined her. He raised his voice to be heard over the guns. “We’re pulling back once Sergeant Lipton blows the gun.”</p><p>Sveta nodded. She glanced right, trying to block out the machine gun fire so she could think. Just as she thought they’d be pinned down forever, covering fire from Easy opened up. Lipton joined them with TNT.</p><p>“Sergeant, blow the gun and then get out of here,” Speirs ordered. He tapped Sveta on the arm. “Let’s go.”</p><p>They both stood and opened fire to offer Lipton a chance to set off the charge. Once he’d destroyed the gun, they backed up. The enemy fire halted. They dashed out of the gun emplacement and back towards safety.</p><p>Sveta caught her breath behind the treeline. After a few moments of peace, she jogged with Lipton and Speirs and two of his men back to Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. She found Easy waiting.</p><p>“Any sign of Casmirovna?” she demanded.</p><p>They looked at her in surprise, as if they’d forgotten about the other Russian. Sveta glared. But they shook their heads, so she moved away. Exhaustion crashed over her as she settled down on the ground where they’d taken up spots earlier. She put her head in her hands. The sounds of war reverberated around her.</p><p>Where was Zhanna? Had the Germans gotten her? Would they torture her, as she’d heard them do to the women on the Eastern Front? Her breathing slowed as she tried to calm down. War was familiar. Battle, she knew how to handle. Brecourt hadn’t been easy, but it’d been predictable. Losing Zhanna wasn’t like that.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Sveta looked up. Winters had wandered over, looking about as exhausted as she felt. With a forced smile, she nodded to him.</p><p>“Good work on that fourth gun,” he told her. When she didn’t respond, he just settled down nearby and laid his own head back against the ground. “Still no word. But Strayer’s busy. He may have heard something.”</p><p>Sveta nodded. She looked at him. “Did we lose anyone?”</p><p>“Not from Easy,” he told her. “But we lost Hall, from Able. And Popeye got hit.”</p><p>She sighed. Not bad. But she could tell he was hurting, and she had no desire to make it worse. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Winters nodded. “Yeah, he will.” Silence hung between them as they just watched the busy town. Paratroopers moved back and forth like insects. After taking a moment to feel around his coat pockets, he turned back to her. “So will she.”</p><p>She had to be. Zhanna had to survive. Sveta would do what it took to see that happen, even if it meant her life. Dying in battle would be better than dying from Beria’s abuse back home. She’d rather die from a stranger’s gun in this country than by her own gun near the Volga.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. ...never so alive...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Instinct took control of her mind somewhere over the English channel. Not long after they were loaded into the planes and the engines started to roar, Zhanna's trembling fingers and anxious thoughts were replaced with a freezing calm. Cold water pouring over her spine, numbing chills splintering down her back. She didn't think, she didn't even comprehend. Not when the air sickness pills started to twist her stomach in knots. Not when the bullets started to fly and most certainly not when she was pushed out of the plane by Buck, throwing her into the air.</p>
<p>Her fingers worked the webbing like it was her sniper rifle. Familiar and comforting, she deployed the parachute like she would a bullet. Quick, painless, numb. The wind whipped her cheeks. Zhanna's heart pounded but it was adrenaline not fear. There were bullets and explosions and planes falling out of the sky but Zhanna glided toward the dark ground like a leaf in the early days of fall. She didn't notice the men around her, hanging limply in the harness.</p>
<p>She didn't notice when her leg bag, that had been the largest amount of weight to her downward course, was split by a stray bullet and plummeted to the ground. Zhanna did feel the jerk upwards, the sudden lightening of the load. Like her necklace. She had thrown her necklace away and now she was throwing her rifle away. A piece of Zhanna floating away from her.</p>
<p>She slipped between two trees, their shadows casting thin lines across her fingers as they struggled with the effort of removing the harness. Ripping it free, the silk glided away among the underbrush, caught by the breeze. It was a silvery ghost, dancing farther and farther from view before disappearing and leaving Zhanna now quite alone. Zhanna's legs were weak, clearly not understanding that she was numb. She wouldn't have noticed if they weren't shaking so much.</p>
<p>Leaning heavily on a tree, she took several trembling breaths. Her numb lungs didn't want to cooperate but she forced them to take in gasping gulps of smoky air. It felt as if she hadn't taken a full breath in weeks. Perhaps not since she had arrived in England. There had been too much fear, too many things on her mind that were requiring her full attention. Sleeping, and it seemed, breathing had taken a back seat.</p>
<p>Part of the worry that had kept her on edge was this mission, this operation, this day of days. It had been so long in coming that the flight from plane to occupied ground had felt so short. Zhanna glanced around the woods, for the first time taking in her surroundings. She was in a sparse corner of a forest, sliding into its undergrowth by way of a neighboring field. It was more open than she would have liked, providing little shelter and Zhanna could see the bursts of light from what could only be German armaments. The ground shook with the booming of shells. Anti-Aircraft guns that were surely mounted and positioned at the incoming Allied planes.</p>
<p>That was her mission, taking out AA guns with the help of the mortar squad and Lieutenant. Compton. But Compton was nowhere to be found and this wasn't her landing zone. She had spent several hours studying the sand tables with Sveta and this didn't seem right. She was supposed to land near a town but there seemed to be only farmland all around. Zhanna didn't recognize a river from the sand tables yet a river flowed. Wherever she was, Zhanna had to meet up with Easy and she had to find a weapon. Without either, she couldn't complete her mission and she couldn't go home.</p>
<p>Her body was still functioning in the numbly brutal instinct. Zhanna knew she couldn't stay here, where the trees provided limited shelter and where she had no weapon. Survival trumped stability and while she had landed here and knew that it was safe for now, the clattering of guns and the shells bursting in the sky could shift from a distant problem to a serious reality in only a matter of moments. Best to keep moving.</p>
<p>She wandered, almost undisturbed for several hours. Zhanna's heart fell into time with the machine guns, the same hammering beat. Her fingers began to lose feeling but she didn't notice. It was hard to notice little things like that when her American boots trod on French soil, walking a path that could lead her into German arms. She didn't feel the fatigue that her mind told her she should. How could Zhanna be tired when she wandered enemy territory?</p>
<p>Zhanna only encountered German soldiers once, on a path between two pastures, and they never saw her. She had slipped into the bushline, slipping down a hidden bank and her feet oozing into a stream. Zhanna let her body ease into the water, hidden by the shadows of the trees that hung lazily over the surface, and watched the men pass her, completely unaware of her hiding spot. She waded through the stream for several miles, until the sun had risen slightly, tinging the sky a soft pink and her body had started to sag.</p>
<p>Enemy territory or not, she was exhausted. She didn't have a canteen, it had been lost in the fall, and she knew she couldn't stop to rest. Zhanna had no map and nothing but an innate sense of direction and orders. She followed the course of the stream and then, later, the dried up ditch bank. She passed, with the sun rising higher in the sky, still burning wreckage of aircraft and the flapping silk ghosts of lost parachutes. It was eerie, to think that Zhanna could have been in that smoldering plane. That Zhanna could have been wrapped up in her parachute, dragged until dead, or worse, found immediately. There would be no hope, in the state she was in.</p>
<p>She had been hoping, praying, that she would find her weapon. That rifle that had been her good luck charm and her survival tool but, as the sun fell into place overhead and Zhanna's feet had found purchase on the rough grass of the Normandy countryside, who ever heard her prayers didn't see fit to provide a rifle. The river of life had been pulling her lazily along, gently tugging her toward its course, but it had begun to twist now. Like the pieces of lost parachutes, something blew into her path.</p>
<p>Zhanna hadn't seen an American since she landed. The one who had stumbled across her path seemed to be as numb as she was. Zhanna froze, the fenceline shady but no real cover provided. The paratrooper, his screaming eagle patch apparent even from the distance settled the immediate fight or flight response. This was a potential ally. His hair was as blinding white as Buck's but this man, no, this boy, wasn't as large or intimidating as her friend was. This paratrooper seemed young, around the same age of Zhanna herself, and very very confused.</p>
<p>"Trooper?" She hissed. Her voice was dry and cracked from lack of use. She hadn't spoken in nearly twelve hours and it showed. "Trooper?"</p>
<p>Once repeated, the boy turned. "What?"</p>
<p>"Outfit?" She remained wary. Easy had found it hard to trust a woman. If any other company found her in the dropzone, Zhanna didn't think they would react well. A soldier could not appreciate a Russian woman being senior in rank. So much could go wrong in these next few breaths. Zhanna wished she was more diplomatic, like Sveta.</p>
<p>"Easy Company," He stammered, stumbling through the grass towards her like a deer who had just found the use of its legs. "Private Blithe."</p>
<p>There had been so many faces, so many names. Zhanna had never bothered to learn them all but there was a rush of knowing that this boy, Blithe, was a familiar company. She had found a member of Easy, now she just had to find the rest of them.</p>
<p>"Where are the rest of your squad?" Zhanna asked. It felt strange to be the commanding officer in a situation. Winters or Sveta or Buck had always been there, a shadow to hide in. But Zhanna was out in the glaring sun and the only officer in sight. Out of luck, it seemed.</p>
<p>"I can't remember," He looked as if he would be sick. Blithe's whole body swayed and Zhanna stood quickly, shoring him upright with a steadying arm.</p>
<p>"Blithe, do you know where we are?" Her accent seemed heavier, when she needed it to disappear.</p>
<p>Blithe shook his head. Zhanna nodded grimly. Back to square one, it seemed. Zhanna had only her self-assigned path, though she wasn't alone anymore.</p>
<p>"Blithe," She kept using his name, trying to anchor him to this field. His eyes seemed a thousand miles away and Zhanna couldn't have a soldier with a head in the clouds. "We are going to get out of this together."</p>
<p>"Yes ma'am."</p>
<p>She had managed to keep the instinct and adrenaline until the sun had started to rise. Once the sky was bright and the shadows had faded, Zhanna was out in the open and the faux courage provided by the pounding heart and numb hands had begun to dissipate, like the morning fog. She started to feel her toes again, damp inside her jump boots, her legs were still trembling but it was from exhaustion not pent up energy. Blithe was completely oblivious to her stumbling steps and clouded mind. She had to ground herself but there was no silver chain around her neck to pull on. Zhanna had left it in England, along with her courage.</p>
<p>Blithe followed Zhanna through the trees and over a bluff to a large expanse of field, where the wreckage of a plane was still smoking and a large group of soldiers were gathering. They milled about, trying to find friends or platoons. It seemed to be several companies, intermingling and banding together. They seemed to think strength was in numbers but they also drew strength from their fallen comrades, picking through belongings and trading personal effects.</p>
<p>Zhanna watched as two soldiers picked through a fallen paratrooper's pockets, his body hardly cold.</p>
<p>"He can't use it," one of them, a sergeant, said, when he caught Zhanna watching him pocket the grenade.</p>
<p>It was true but sickening. Zhanna had been to war before but it had been a solitary fight. Several hundred kilometers apart, staring through scopes, and firing one or two shots. Zhanna never had to see the aftermath. She didn't say anything, just kept walking, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Staying in this large group that could be easily targeted didn't sit well with her, unsettling her more than the pilfering of dead soldiers.</p>
<p>"Do you recognize anyone?" she asked Blithe, as he had a more active role in Easy. Maybe he knew one or two faces that she didn't. But Blithe shook his head. He had fallen quiet during their walk, retreating deeper into his mind.</p>
<p>Zhanna glanced around the crowd again, ready to call it a loss and continue inland till her eyes fell on, not a familiar face, but a familiar sight nonetheless. Smooth wood. Shining metal polished carefully, if not obsessively. She had spent hours taking apart that gun and she could recognize it anywhere.</p>
<p>"Where the fuck did you get that?" Zhanna didn't think twice about marching up to the paratrooper who held her pride and joy in his grubby hands. Just as before, she was met with hostility.</p>
<p>"Found it in a leg bag in a flooded field," The paratrooper's red hair was turned to fire in the sun but Zhanna didn't need flames to make this man feel her anger; her cold stare would be enough.</p>
<p>"It belongs to me now. I fucking found it-" He didn't have a chance to finish. Her fist wasn't ice, for it didn't shatter when it made contact with his face but her cool fury was. Zhanna didn't have a temper but she would take back what was rightfully hers.</p>
<p>She snatched the rifle from his grasp and hissed. "You are speaking to an officer,"</p>
<p>The strap settled comfortably on her shoulder, falling right into place. Zhanna let out a breath she had been holding since the early morning hours, when she first landed in that little copse of trees at the edge of the field. She hadn't cleaned the Mosin-Nagant rifle since she had left England and the leg bag's path to the landing zone hadn't been an easy one. The wood of the rifle was slightly chipped, pieces shaved off that had been whole before. Zhanna ran her hands over the metal that was damp and muddied, one of the few prized possessions she could still touch. The weight of her little leather bound journal was heavy against her breast but this rifle would serve her better than a pen and paper.</p>
<p>Turning to Blithe she said, "Come along Private."</p>
<p>They wandered through Normandy, resting for a few hours in a ditch bank before continuing on. Zhanna didn't know where she was going, neither did Blithe but Zhanna didn't want to stop. If her feet stopped moving and her mind was allowed to begin to twist, she would plummet into a pit of fear and apprehension at her actions and her survival. Zhanna didn't need to worry about her parents, their homeland off in the horizon. She didn't need to fret over the Germans, not now that her sniper training could be put to use with her trusted rifle.</p>
<p>Hunger settling in, their K rations had been lost or long since devoured, Zhanna couldn't help but grow a little worried. A little concerned.</p>
<p>Passing through the wreckage of American planes became a common sight and a morbid sign of hope. That meant that there might have been survivors and more of a chance that they would be reunited with Easy company. Parachutes waved like mourning cloths, fluttering from where they were caught on trees and powerlines.</p>
<p>When Zhanna had lived in Stalingrad, in the weeks before her parents had fled the city, they had watched the NKVD slowly progress their purge of Poles from the city. They left houses empty and lives scattered while the curtains fluttered through broken windows. Zhanna's feet stopped of their own accord, ignoring any sense as her mind recognized the flapping fabric in the wind. The broken glass crunched under her boots. The parachutes flapped like the curtains, marking a lost soul. She stared up at the ripped silk, stained with mud and smoke, peppered in bullet holes. A man dangled from the harness. His body lay very still.</p>
<p>Agata had always paused at the door of one such abandoned home, knowing that death or displacement had stained the very walls. Her soft words echoed in Zhanna's ear and she repeated them aloud, almost a whisper. "Baruch dayan ha'emet,"</p>
<p>Life gave and Life took. The waters kept rushing, the current kept stirring, and what was meant to be, happened. Zhanna couldn't have saved this paratrooper but there was something in his lifeless form that unsettled her. She blinked, almost sure she had seen blond hair peeking under the helmet, not black.</p>
<p>Zhanna's knees gave out and she fell into the tall grass. For the first time since she had landed in Normandy, she allowed herself to sit and rest. She allowed the fears to fall into her mind. Poland was on this continent. She was back in the Eastern half of the world for the first time in nearly a year. Every danger she had faced before had increased tenfold. Her parents, no matter how she wished it, could be imprisoned or dead. Zhanna could follow if she wasn't careful. But caution didn't matter, not in a battleground. There were still sounds of guns firing not far off and accompanying shouts of pain. Zhanna didn't want to face that but she had to.</p>
<p>A voice cut through the clamor of war, one of familiarity. It's usual taunting tone was replaced with a sound of genuine concern. "Lieutenant?"</p>
<p>Floyd Talbert hadn't expressed any sympathy for Zhanna in the year she had known him but battle had changed him, it seemed.</p>
<p>"Do you need a minute?" He looked down at her, hand outstretched, and she accepted.</p>
<p>"I'm fine, Talbert," She said, dusting off her fatigues and shouldering her rifle. "It's been a long day."</p>
<p>"Day?" Talbert's brow furrowed. "Lieutenant Casmirovna, we landed two days ago."</p>
<p>Zhanna had spent two days wandering enemy territory and she hadn't known. Time had been elusive. In what she thought had been hours it turned out to be days. Days spent in solitude or in deathly quiet company. She glanced around the field, wandering if she had missed anything else in that time. Talbert hadn't found her alone. Shifty Powers squinted in the sunlight and Smokey Gordon adjusted the bulky gun on his shoulder.</p>
<p>"He looks familiar," Talbert gestured at her companion. "First platoon, right?"</p>
<p>"Blithe," Zhanna supplied. "We've been trying to find Easy."</p>
<p>"Join the club," He faltered, remembering she was an officer, even if she was Russian and a woman. "Ma'am," He added, covering his mistake.</p>
<p>Zhanna glanced around at the paratroopers she had brushed elbows with at Fort Benning and Camp Mackall. An unspoken allegiance had formed, not unlike the one she had made with Buck. A company of necessity and mutual benefit. They were all looking for Easy. Zhanna was tired of running around in circles. Without a word crossing their lips, a deal was struck.</p>
<p>They didn't have long to go. Amidst shouts and gunshots, they crossed into the limit of a war torn city, filled with American soldiers and rubble. Men relaxed against an obelisk monumenting the Great War, a battle that was fought only a few decades before. These streets had seen bloodshed before but these men had not. They were exhausted, half-asleep and covered in an assortment of stains, ranging in mud to blood.</p>
<p>Talbert exclaimed his excitement and joked that they had been looking all over for them. Their reception was warm, quickly turning into a parade of spoils and prizes looted from Germans. While Talbert, Powers, and Gordon blended in with their comrades, Zhanna's feet continued through the streets until she caught a glimpse of the tall blond form of her greatest ally.</p>
<p>He was in deep conversation with Winters and a dark-headed woman that Zhanna immediately recognized as Sveta. Zhanna had to suppress a cry of relief. She hadn't been so relieved to see anyone in her life. Her feet couldn't take her fast enough. Buck caught her approaching and his face broke into a wide grin. As grease-stained as he was his smile was still blinding.</p>
<p>"Zhanna," He said, as she slid into their conference, Winters giving a quick nod, muttering that he was glad she was alright. Sveta gave Zhanna a smile but then shot a glare at Buck for his use of her given name. "Glad you could join us."</p>
<p><em>"Are you alright?"</em> Sveta murmured, slipping into Russian.</p>
<p>"Spent the better part of two days in a ditch but I'm fine." Zhanna answered in English, earning her a strange look.</p>
<p>"You didn't see Meehan, did you?" Buck asked, bumping her gently with his shoulder. It was a light touch but Zhanna was so exhausted she almost lost her balance. Winters shot out a hand to steady her.</p>
<p>"I did not," Zhanna admitted. "He is not back yet?"</p>
<p>Winters shook his head no. He had released her quickly, as if scorched by the touch. He seemed on edge, more than just being aware.</p>
<p>"So you are company commander?" Zhanna asked.</p>
<p>"Until he gets back."</p>
<p>Sveta and Zhanna exchanged a glance, no native tongue needed to know that Meehan wouldn't be coming back and they were staring at their new company commander. Zhanna didn't disapprove of fate's choice, in fact she supported it. Winters knew that orders were to be followed but he understood the truth that Zhanna had shared. He didn't seem to believe in the blind faith of the military.</p>
<p>"So what now?" Zhanna asked. She had made it back to Easy, she had succeeded with this first part of her mission. Zhanna needed to finish this little trip with the Americans so she could go home.</p>
<p>"We're taking Carentan," Winters explained. "It's the only place where troops from Omaha and Utah can head inland. If we don't control Carentan, we can't proceed. The whole division is being sent," he continued. Motioning to Zhanna, he said. "You and Compton take 2nd platoon. Samsonova, you're with Welsh in 1st. We are following Fox Company."</p>
<p>Zhanna followed her friends to find their respective platoons. She paused, urging Buck to go ahead and find 2nd, promising to be there shortly. Alone with Sveta, she didn't have to speak Russian but it felt calming to slip back into the language. Not her native tongue but still familiar.</p>
<p>
  <em>"How was your jump?"</em>
</p>
<p><em>"Landed with Speirs. Took a couple of German guns."</em> Sveta's brow furrowed as she looked Zhanna up and down. <em>"You were gone a long time."</em></p>
<p><em>"Lost my rifle,"</em> she admitted. <em>"I had to get it back from some sergeant in Dog Company."</em></p>
<p><em>"Are you alright?"</em> Sveta asked.</p>
<p><em>"I'm fine,"</em> Zhanna said.</p>
<p><em>"Compton called you Zhanna."</em> Her eyes narrowed. The only person in Russia who called Zhanna by her given name had been Sveta and it had been so in America for so long that they both had grown used to it. A private side of her that no one dared utter. But Zhanna had let Buck into that side. Sveta would have to get used to it.</p>
<p><em>"I told him he could,"</em> she said simply.</p>
<p><em>"I was worried about you,"</em> Sveta started to change the subject but Buck, who had joined up with their platoons, called.</p>
<p>"Lieutenants! They're falling out."</p>
<p><em>"Let's just get this over with,"</em> Zhanna urged.<em> "Sooner we finish-"</em></p>
<p>Sveta nodded. <em>"Sooner we can go home."</em></p>
<p>Zhanna squeezed her hand before they parted, both going their separate ways. The touch was enough to communicate what their words didn't have time to. Zhanna was still by her friend's side, and on a more bittersweet note, she still knew what Sveta had done for her. What Veronika had done. The burden had been too much to bear and Zhanna had to relieve the weight with the loss of her silver charm. While Buck had become her ally, Sveta had been her savior and Zhanna could never forget that.</p>
<p>As her feet fell into the painful but familiar rhythm of the march, Zhanna's mind wandered to Meehan. Every wreckage of a plane she passed could have been his final resting place. Every silk parachute could have been his funeral shroud. Whispering so quietly, that not even Buck, whose arm brushed against her shoulder as they walked, her words were lost in the rustle of canvas and the hammering of machine guns.</p>
<p>
  <em>"Baruch dayan ha'emet."</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. ...but I will tell the night...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Thousands of mosquitoes buzzed around the men. Between the humidity and the oppressive flames of still-burning wreckages, Sveta found herself wishing for a nice winter wind. She and Harry slogged forward in silence. In front of them, Hoobler had taken point followed by Blithe. Behind trudged the rest of Easy Company.</p>
<p>Having Zhanna back in one piece eased her fears. Even without her at her side, Sveta could relax. She was safe. Here in Normandy, away from the prying eyes of the American military command, they were safer. A pitiable irony really.</p>
<p>Sveta smacked at her neck. Muttering in Russian, she pulled her hand away and found a squished mosquito, blood staining her palm. Beside her, Harry squirmed, then smacked at his own neck.</p>
<p>"Sonofabitch," he muttered.</p>
<p>She just hummed in agreement. The sound of boots squishing in mud filled the area. But the sounds of war had mostly faded. The occasional crack of artillery fire would echo from the distance, but the once ever-present machine guns had ceased. A tense calm had fallen on the world with the darkness of night.</p>
<p>Behind her, she could make out Dukeman trying to keep his voice low. In front, Hoobler and Blithe marched in total silence. Soon her focus turned to the ground. Three German corpses lay strewn in their path. One had a burned face. Sveta grimaced as she stepped over them.</p>
<p>The carnage in Normandy reminded Sveta of the lie of the glory and glamour of war. War wasn't glamorous. War was ugly.</p>
<p>And yet, here in this fetid swamp which stunk of equal parts death, mildew, and burning gasoline, she found a refuge. Freedom. Sveta nearly scoffed as the thought passed her mind. Apparently she didn't need the Volga and the Valdai Hills to escape from Beria. A war-torn French countryside would do well enough.</p>
<p>"Damn!"</p>
<p>Sveta and Harry both turned their attention to Hoobler at the front. As Harry stalked forward, Sveta followed. He demanded to know the problem.</p>
<p>"We lost F Company, sir," Hoobler muttered.</p>
<p>Not again. Sveta felt anger burning her chest. She'd thought Easy had been in bad shape with Sobel when it came to navigating, but Fox Company had managed to match him for stupidity. And Harry wasn't any more pleased.</p>
<p>"Again?" he echoed, incredulously.</p>
<p>Hoobler just gestured forward. Sveta turned with Harry, walking a few feet up. As he'd said, the rear of Fox Company's line had disappeared into the trees. It was as if they had never learned how to march in formation at night. Sveta scoffed. Behind, she heard Hoobler telling Perconte the same information.</p>
<p>She glanced at Harry. He looked more furious than she'd ever seen him. Sveta wondered if he could see the same anger in her own expression. When he looked at her, he just rolled his eyes. They moved back to the group.</p>
<p>"Perconte, go tell them to hold up." When the sergeant acknowledged the order, Harry turned to his left. "Hoobler, take Blithe, go find F Company."</p>
<p>They disappeared further into the darkness. Sveta sighed. She shook her head. Turning to Harry, she rolled her eyes. "You would think they had never trained for war."</p>
<p>"Yeah," he agreed. "We trained under Sobel for fuck's sake. And we're better than them."</p>
<p>Sveta looked back down the line of soldiers. Most had taken a knee, trying to find rest in the stoppage. She knew from experience though that sometimes the best thing for tired feet was to stay on them. As soon as you stopped that and relieved the pressure, the pain would redouble when you needed to move forward.</p>
<p>Movement caught her eye. Before long, Nixon and Winters came striding up, both looking as irritated as she and Harry felt. Neither said hello.</p>
<p>"Did you send somebody?" Winters demanded. He didn't need to say more. It had already happened twice on their march since evening had fallen.</p>
<p>Harry scoffed, cutting him off. "Yeah I've got Hoobler and Blithe out there now."</p>
<p>Nixon came level with them. "Why have we stopped?"</p>
<p>"This is about officers crapping out on their training, Nix."</p>
<p>Sveta agreed with Winters, but kept silent. Instead she just watched the burning red and yellow flames all around them. Barrels of gasoline, shot down planes, even broken down vehicles littered the paths around the flooded fields.</p>
<p>By the time she turned back to pay attention, Nixon and Winters had started to move off. "I'll go tell the company to get ready," she told Harry. Sveta wanted to talk to Zhanna at least, and figured she could use the walk.</p>
<p>"Right." He nodded. Smacking at the back of his neck again, he cursed. "Let Buck know what's going on with F Company, too."</p>
<p>She nodded at him. Turning to the rest of the Company, Sveta took a deep breath. Her eyes watered. The smoke and stench filled her lungs and she nearly choked.</p>
<p>Sisk and Dukeman looked up at her from where they'd taken a bit of shelter by an overturned jeep. She saw the nervousness in their bodies: hunched shoulders, rapidly darting gaze, quick breaths. Sveta moved past them. She walked past Cobb and More, sparing them little more than a glance.</p>
<p>Luz stood with Perconte, both trying to keep their chatter to a whisper. As she moved towards them, Luz nodded. Perconte followed suit. She nodded back.</p>
<p>Then came Randleman, and then Tipper, and Alley, and a dozen other men she rarely talked to. They were mostly privates who had filled the ranks after she had joined the company at Benning.</p>
<p>At the back she found Martin standing with Compton, Guarnere, and Toye. They were chatting quietly, a feat for Sergeant Guarnere. Sveta moved over to them, noticing Zhanna close by.</p>
<p>"Any news, Lieutenant?" Compton asked her.</p>
<p>They all looked over. Guarnere had his usual put out expression plastered all over his face, practically glowing in the light of the fires around them. It lit up his dark eyes. Sveta almost found it menacing. Beside him, Toye and Martin glared at nothing.</p>
<p>"Fox Company left us behind." Sveta shook her head. "Lieutenant Winters is tracking them down."</p>
<p>"Jesus Christ," muttered Guarnere.</p>
<p>Sveta agreed with him but said nothing. Instead, she turned to Zhanna, who had walked over. She switched to Russian. <em>"These Americans are worse at marching than they are at keeping their opinions to themselves."</em></p>
<p><em>"They'll learn,"</em> Zhanna said. <em>"They have to."</em></p>
<p>Sveta nearly laughed. But instead, she just nodded with a smile. <em>"You'd think that a company called Fox would be more clever." </em>When she saw Zhanna crack the tiniest of smiles, Sveta turned to the Americans again. They shuffled in place, expressions ranging from anger to awkwardness. "Compton, let your men know what's going on. I'm going to inform D Company."</p>
<p>"Right."</p>
<p>Sveta left them behind. Zhanna could watch out for herself. In the field, she knew of no one more dangerous. So she moved through the ranks of kneeling enlisted once more.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant."</p>
<p>At the sound of Sergeant Talbert's voice, she stopped and looked left. He and Lipton were huddled with each other by a half broken tree. She joined them. "Sergeants?"</p>
<p>"Any news on why we stopped?" Talbert asked.</p>
<p>She nodded, telling them about F Company. They looked as irritated as she and the others had all down the line. "Has Dog stayed in contact?"</p>
<p>Lipton nodded. "Yes, ma'am."</p>
<p>"We know how to march," muttered Talbert. "Fox on the other hand."</p>
<p>"We can't all be as good as Easy Company, Sergeant Talbert," Sveta told him. "The Germans wouldn't stand a chance. The war would end too soon," she added. Talbert and Lipton looked at her in surprise. She couldn't stop the smirk from breaking through her irritated glare. She let out a small laugh. "Carry on." Sveta caught a bit of Talbert's shocked question to Lipton as she moved away.</p>
<p>"Did she just make a joke?"</p>
<p>It didn't take long to reach the end of Third Platoon. At the back, she found Speirs chatting with another Lieutenant. Both their CO and XO had been labeled as MIA, so the job of commander fell to Dog's Lieutenant McMillan. They turned to her as she approached.</p>
<p>"Why did we stop?" McMillan demanded. He wasn't typically a rude man. His sharp tone irritated her. It was the fear, she tried to remind herself.</p>
<p>She gestured behind herself. "Fox Company doesn't know how to march, Lieutenant," she told him. "Lieutenant Winters is finding them."</p>
<p>With a grumbled curse, McMillan shook his head. "Speirs, stay here." He left them without another word as he went down the line of Dog Company men. They all glanced up at him as he passed.</p>
<p>"Is that why we've been stalling all night?" Speirs asked her.</p>
<p>She nodded. Pulling her canteen out, she tipped it back and downed a large gulp of the alcohol she'd smuggled inside. She nearly coughed. Regaining control of herself, she sighed. "Did you all not train for this?"</p>
<p>"Weren't you there?" he reminded her.</p>
<p>Sveta just scoffed. "Trust me, Speirs, there is no way to erase the past year from my mind no matter how hard I try." After looking at the flames around them, she turned back to him. The lines of camouflage had almost faded completely from his face. "I trained. I don't know about the rest of you."</p>
<p>"I would think the bruised rib I left you with would be enough to prove that."</p>
<p>Sveta refused to dignify his prodding with a response. Instead, she looked down the line of D Company men. Then she looked back at Speirs. "You scared Easy's men pretty well. They're telling stories of you massacring German prisoners."</p>
<p>She saw him pause. He had been chewing gum, and at her words, his jaw clenched for just a moment. His eyes narrowed. She nearly smirked at him. So there was some truth in the stories. That explained Malarkey's terror at Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. It wasn't long before he'd recovered and shrugged.</p>
<p>"We're all dead anyway, Samsonova. It's us or them."</p>
<p>"Don't mistake my words for disapproval," she told him. "In Russia, the Nazis would murder my people. Round us up, torture us. Men, women, we were all less than human to them." She shook her head, glancing away. In the dark, she felt a cold shiver travel down her spine. Not even medics were safe from Germans. Sveta looked him in the eye. "So we do what it takes to survive, Speirs."</p>
<p>He didn't respond. They couldn't light cigarettes with the light discipline in place, though Sveta found it stupid given the sheer amount of burning wreckage glowing all around them. So instead she just took another drink of the vodka.</p>
<p>Do what it takes to survive. That had been her guiding principle for years. She remembered that naive little girl who had been sitting in a bathtub, her world shattered around her. But still, she had clung to the hope that she would be better than her father, than Stalin, than the men she knew only as blue-capped officers. Then she'd grown up. Then Beria had entered their lives.</p>
<p>Survival became all that mattered. Survival trumped resistance. She'd seen a few of the women that Beria trapped in his estate. But she could do nothing. She was a puppet for the Soviets. Or she had been, in Stalingrad and Moscow and Leningrad. Here, she was a soldier. She was an officer. Still trying to survive. But in Normandy, the enemy could be identified by opposing colors. In Russia, enemies wore the mask of friends.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. ...banners raised...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Lying on her front in the grass like a snake, Zhanna settled into the familiarity of the scenario. She had assumed this position often, the thirty days she had spent in the field flooding back to her now. Though her time spent fighting had been dangerous, she could at least fall back onto the experience. Overlooking the shelled-out town of Carentan, Zhanna knew what she was going to do.</p>
<p>The streets were cluttered with rubble and the silence was deathly but Zhanna knew that there was a beast lying in wait. Buck, his back to her, was tense. They were all waiting for orders, Easy Company crouched behind an embankment. This town was silent but they knew it would be filled with the clamor of bullets and wounded in only a matter of time. That's how it always was.</p>
<p>Sveta's shoulder brushed hers, a comforting familiarity. It was like in Russia, before America, before paratroopers. They would fight together like they always had. Sveta had lost her rifle in the landing but had acquired a lost American weapon. She had never been particularly attached to the Mosin-Nagant like Zhanna had and the new rifle didn't lend itself to their old work as a sniper pair. Though they were side by side now, when the fighting started they would be separated. As they had been in America.</p>
<p>When Winters shouted for the line to advance, Zhanna's feet didn't budge for a heartbeat. Frozen firmly to the dirt, her American boots couldn't follow orders. The curtains fluttered through shattered windows as the soldiers ran forward under the spray of bullets but Zhanna couldn't move. Not until Sveta's hand squeezed her upper arm, lifting her up and into motion.</p>
<p>Once a few stumbling steps had been taken, her body's adrenaline, though depleted from the two days of solitary wandering, kicked in. Breathless energy and heart hammering movement, she ran among the men. They didn't get far before the Germans started to fire their machine guns at the road. Dirt coated her mouth as Buck tossed her into a ditch, shouting at the men to do the same. They huddled in that ditch bank, the bullets sending spray of dirt and fragments into the air. Zhanna coughed, rolling over so her rifle wasn't digging into her shoulder. She couldn't sit up, not without the danger of being shot but she could wriggle forward, ignoring Buck's warnings and Muck shouting, questioning her sanity.</p>
<p>At first glance, Zhanna wasn't intimidating. The men of Easy had seemed to forget that she was a sniper, not just the small girl who hung off to the side. She didn't look dangerous but Sink's eyes had widened in surprise when he had read her kill count and Nixon studied her like she was a hidden weapon. She had fought for survival, long before she had joined the military. Once she had been given her rifle, she had worked hard to prove herself. Zhanna wasn't much to look at but she was a sniper and it was time for the men of Easy company to remember that.</p>
<p>She slithered forward, pushing herself over the ditch and onto the road with her elbows. Blinking rapidly to try and remove the dirt from her eyes, Zhanna leveled the rifle at the machine gun, blocking out the bullets that found purchase in the earth around her. Buck's hand wrapped around her ankle, to pull her back into safety but Zhanna kicked out hard. Before he could intervene, she squeezed the trigger and through the scope, saw the bullet meet its mark.</p>
<p>Her shot had provided the briefest pause, allowing Winters to push to the front, shouting, "Let's go Easy!"</p>
<p>Buck's voice entered the chaos, calling on the men to move out. With Zhanna's window and their leader's encouragement, it gave the men enough to push forward and relieve Luz and Welsh, who had been isolated in the front, under heavy fire. Coming over the crest of the hill and rushing down into Carentan was like entering a ghost town that had burst to life with vengeful spirits. Rubble came alive with machine guns and explosions. Dust blew into the air, coating hair, skin, and lungs.</p>
<p>Someone shouted, "Spotter, upstairs window!"</p>
<p>Zhanna wasn't sure who it was directed to but she took it upon herself to provide the solution. The shot had been fired and the bullet loosed before she ran on, the adrenaline finally kicking in. While men were still being coaxed out of the ditch banks, Zhanna followed a group of confident - or were they reckless - men into the town. They didn't make it far before diving for cover, enemy fire raining down from above.</p>
<p>Snipers, Zhanna thought, in a dreadful position, tactically speaking. From the glance she had stolen at the enemy, he lay on a metal staircase, virtually open to returning fire. The steady stream of covering fire showed that he knew one well placed bullet could end his whole scheme. Zhanna's body was pinned against the stonewall of the alley. Lipton sheltering beside her was also stuck in place. Any attempt to take out the sniper would be met with a well-placed bullet in her torso or arm. Glancing to the side, Zhanna saw Shifty Powers, pressed against the wire of a chicken coop, cowering with his rifle in hand.</p>
<p>She had never been able to understand his accent but she understood his skill with a gun could almost rival her own. Zhanna was pinned down but Shifty could do it. Whistling sharply to get his attention, she jerked her head towards the sniper and nodded encouragingly. Shifty dipped his head in understanding and with one shot, took out the German.</p>
<p>Zhanna rounded the corner, rifle raised and took out two machine gunners through an open window. She paused, waiting to see if another would take their place but the only movement was from the fluttering lace of a curtain. Shifty pushed forward with Lipton but Zhanna parted ways, slipping down a side alley to follow Guarnere as he cleared a sector on the right.</p>
<p>As men threw grenades and generally wrecked mayhem, Zhanna didn't fire a single shot. Following like a ghost, she watched as they blew the glass out of windows and took down German gunners. They cleared out buildings but Zhanna didn't have a foe in this kind of fight. It was too close, the enemy so close their eyes could be seen. She had done what she could but now she realized she wasn't much good on the ground. Not at this close range. She needed a little more height to be a real danger.</p>
<p>Without a word, she snatched at the back of the nearest soldier's jacket, Toye, and pulled him off to the side.</p>
<p>"I need to be taller!" Zhanna said, proper English escaping her in the heat of the battle. "Taller!"</p>
<p>"Okay," Toye said, loosening her grip on him. "Jesus,"</p>
<p>He pushed her through a doorway, to the cleared out building beyond. Zhanna coughed the dust still settling from the potato masher thrown through the window moments before. They tripped over rubble on their way to the stairs, ascending higher and higher. Toye kicked down the door to the room at the top of the landing and Zhanna glanced around the room before selecting the window overlooking the backstreets of Carentan and the retreating Germans.. She threw open the window, taking in the sight of rubble and marshland before kneeling to rest her elbow against the ledge.</p>
<p>Toye cursed under his breath as she fired her first shot. It found its mark in the back of a fleeing German, sending him into the water below him. She didn't stop, not when explosions rattled the window panes. Not when she caught Sveta out of the corner of her eye, hoisting up a battered Lipton. She kept up the steady stream of bullets, laying waste to the Germans before her.</p>
<p>Toye didn't speak, but the weight of his gaze on her back was enough to give away his shock. Easy knew Zhanna had been a sniper. They knew that she trained at the shooting range when no one else was around. They knew she was good. But they preferred to see her as small and timid. Muck admitted to forgetting she was a trained riflewoman at times. But now, with the men looking up from the streets to watch the blonde head and shining metal poking through the window, it would be hard for them to forget.</p>
<p>She didn't stop shooting until she had run out of ammo and the arm that had propped up the barrel was numb. The battle had been won but she had kept firing for a few heartbeats, refusing to accept the call to lower weapons. Zhanna had forgotten, in all her fear and worry, how good it felt to fight back. She had survived for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to live.</p>
<p>Her feet felt like they were floating as she descended the stairs and joined the rest of the men on the streets. They were checking for wounds and passing around canteens, and Zhanna couldn't feel a thing. Buck had seen her briefly before leaving for the Battalion CP that was being set up outside of town. He was alright, a relief onto its own and he gave her that dazzling smile. They had both made it and that's what mattered. The numbness in her arm had spread to the rest of her body and she couldn't stop from grinning inwardly. She wandered around for a few minutes, or was it hours? Zhanna didn't know. Her mind was still racing, a stark comparison to the coolness of her limbs. Muck and Malarkey found her in those moments, when the battle was still fresh and their eyes still wild.</p>
<p>They settled down on a set of stone steps, passing around rations and complaining about the Greman's taste. They were joined by Penkala, More, and her old friend, Blithe. It was an attempt to slowly ride out the high of battle, something Zhanna had come to know and the men of Easy were growing familiar with. While Muck groaned about the quality of cheese, Zhanna spread a cloth on the ground, and began to disassemble her rifle. She hadn't cleaned it since her feet had touched French soil and she had reclaimed it from the hands of that Dog company sergeant.</p>
<p>"I heard you and that rifle were the stars of the assault," Malarkey said.</p>
<p>Zhanna didn't answer, just pursed her lips together to keep from smiling. "I did what I had to," She said finally. That was all they could ever do, wasn't it?</p>
<p>"You destroyed those retreating Krauts, Casmirovna," Penkala said.</p>
<p>Blithe lay silently, not contributing to the conversation. In the nearly 48 hours in his company, Zhanna had heard him speak only a few times. He had always been reserved but the action they had seen had retreated him further into his shell.</p>
<p>"You must have been blessed by that crazy chaplain," Malarkey continued.</p>
<p>"Who?" More asked. Never one to miss a chance to tell a story, Malarkey recounted the tale of the reckless Father Maloney who had put his own life on the line to give a final blessing. Zhanna didn't think the chaplain had said a prayer for her but maybe life had seen it fit to give in return for all that it had taken. What skill with a rifle or a particularly deadly streak of kills could replace the loss of her parents or the pain she had endured, Zhanna didn't know.</p>
<p>The men were confident, now that they had a few skirmishes under their belts. The promise Zhanna had made to Winters, that the men would be ready when the time came, had been fulfilled. More had said with such assurance that they would see Berlin by Christmas. His words sent shivers down Zhanna's spine. The idea that their path would lead them to Germany and that the end of her time with the Airborne could be so soon. A few months from now, Zhanna could be back in Russia. Zhanna could find her parents and carve out that little piece of home that she had imagined. With the garden her mother wanted and the curtains of any color but white.</p>
<p>"Enjoy it while it lasts." Lieutenant Speirs, the man responsible for Sveta's bruised rib and an officer that Zhanna had yet to have the pleasure of meeting towered over them. "We are moving out soon."</p>
<p>"Out of town, Lieutenant?" More asked. "Already?"</p>
<p>Zhanna knew it would be inevitable. The movement of armies was like that of a chessboard. They had won this square, knocked out the German's piece and the only logical move was to advance. It was strategy, not unlike the politics of Stalingrad or the nuances of the NKVD purge. It was how the world worked. Once a prize was won, eyes were set to the next, bigger prize.</p>
<p>"That's right," Speirs said softly. Malarkey looked uncomfortable, more than just displeasure at the sudden movement. If Muck was unhappy, he didn't show it but exchanged a look with Penkala. Zhanna stayed silent. Speirs stepped through them, forcing Penkala to stand up to allow clear passage. Zhanna tucked her knees closer to her chest to avoid being stepped on.</p>
<p>More didn't seem to mind that he was in the presence of an officer, not allowing rank to stop him from opening his mouth. "Don't they know we just got settled here?"</p>
<p>Speirs turned back to face them. His dark eyes glanced over all of them, before settling on Zhanna. He seemed to forgive More's impertinence, forgetting it in favor of saying, "So you're the other Russian?"</p>
<p>There was a sharp intake of breath among her companions, one that didn't calm Zhanna's hammering heart under his gaze. Speirs' eyes were steady and unwavering but shifted when she replied. "I am. I've heard about you."</p>
<p>"You have?" Speirs reached into his jacket, and Muck stiffened beside Zhanna when the officer withdrew a pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes. Standard army issue. "Cigarette?"</p>
<p>Zhanna looked at the offered pack, remembering the pain Sveta had been in, both physically and mentally after their scuffle. She smiled and plucked the Lucky Strikes from his grip, sliding it into the innermost pocket of her jacket.</p>
<p>Neither of them said anything, the air between Speirs and Zhanna chilling. She met his gaze steadily, not backing down until he turned back around and marched away.</p>
<p>"Are you out of your mind?" Muck hissed, as soon as Speirs's retreating back was out of earshot. "After what Mal saw?"</p>
<p>"What did Malarkey see?" Zhanna asked, her curiosity piqued. The cigarettes in her possession and Sveta probably only now returning from taking Lipton to the aid station, she wanted to know everything she could about the officer of Dog company.</p>
<p>"I told you, I didn't actually see it," Malarkey said quickly.</p>
<p>"What Speirs shooting the prisoners or the sergeant in his own platoon?" Penkala asked.</p>
<p>"What?" Muck said incredulously. "I didn't hear that one!"</p>
<p>"Wait he shot one of his own guys?" More cried.</p>
<p>Zhanna, realizing that this was all hearsay, tuned out their conversation quickly. Officers shooting NCOs, prisoners of war facing the end of a rifle. It was all a bunch of rumours, to her. Speirs did seem capable of such an act, from what Sveta had told her and from what she had seen. His eyes, dark and watchful, were like Nixon's.</p>
<p>While Nixon sought to solve the puzzle behind Zhanna, Speirs seemed more likely to pull a trigger when things got too complicated. He had bruised Sveta's rib and those eyes had sent the same chills down her spine as the NKVD officers had. He seemed to be watching her even now, his feet carrying him over to where Sveta stood, her back to the wall. He was facing away from them and while the alliance between Sveta and Speirs was all too familiar to the NKVD officers and the Samsonovs, there was something about him that Zhanna could respect. And if the rumours of shooting a Dog company sergeant was true, Zhanna viciously hoped it was the one who had stolen her rifle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. ...to do no harm...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sveta's body ached. Even with the few hours rest they'd been given, she could feel a headache creeping in, just at the base of her skull, squeezing at her brain. Lipton sat in the aid station now, Sveta just returned from getting him to the medics. And now, as she sat in a shadowed corner of Carentan, Sveta closed her eyes. Her head lay against brick. It shouldn't have been comfortable. It should've been uncomfortable, painful even. But from this dark spot of solitude, she could think in peace.</p>
<p>"You look miserable."</p>
<p>Sveta opened her eyes. Harry Welsh stood in front of her, smile gone but eyes as bright as ever. He took a drink. The way he half grimaced, she guessed that like hers, it wasn't water in his canteen. "We're at war, Harry."</p>
<p>"Really? Could've fooled me," he said. "Ready to go?"</p>
<p>"Are we moving out, then?"</p>
<p>He nodded. Gesturing back to his left, he continued, "Dick's talking to Strayer right now. Sounds like we're moving further south. We're supposed to expect a counterattack."</p>
<p>"Of course," she agreed. "I could've told you that. They're not going to give this up."</p>
<p>With a small grunt, he agreed with her. Sveta soon stood up and looked at the men meandering about the central square of Carentan. They'd lost Tipper, Lipton, and a few others to the initial assault. But it seemed that most of the men were in high spirits. It wouldn't last. It never did.</p>
<p>Zhanna sat with the mortar squad of Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala. More had joined them too, and for a moment a bit of anger flared up in her chest. More had been the perpetrator of many fierce insults during training. But as Zhanna just sat with them quietly, working away to clean her rifle, it faded. More didn't seem to object to her presence. So she shoved down the anger.</p>
<p>Sveta watched as Speirs moved through the courtyard, every so often talking to an enlisted soldier he passed. When he stopped by Zhanna's group, she tensed. The men all froze as well, but Zhanna just watched him closely. He said something, they just shook their heads, and then he moved to leave. But someone said something, and Speirs turned back around. He pulled out some cigarettes.</p>
<p>The next thing Sveta knew, Zhanna had taken the entire pack of cigarettes that Speirs had stolen from Compton, nodded with a small smile, and sat back down. Everyone froze. The mortar squad looked on in horror. More's eyes widened. All Sveta could see of Speirs was his lack of movement. Then he turned around.</p>
<p>Harry had started getting the men in order. "First Platoon, start getting your stuff together."</p>
<p>But Sveta met Speirs' gaze. He moved over to her straight away, a look between a pout and a frown on his face. As the enlisted men moved about gearing up and chatting, he joined her.</p>
<p>"Casmirovna just took my whole pack," he said.</p>
<p>Sveta shook her head, releasing a small breath. She'd very rarely, maybe never, seen Zhanna act like that. Based on the way Zhanna stood dwarfed by the enlisted, listening to them go on and on frantically about something, she guessed it had been an actual joke. She never joked.</p>
<p>"Yes. She did," Sveta confirmed. Then she caught Zhanna's smile widening as the men turned away. Sveta couldn't help but do the same. "Finders Keepers, right, Speirs? If I remember right, you stole that pack first."</p>
<p>Speirs just scoffed. "Compton didn't need it."</p>
<p>He left her still shaking his head a bit. The smile on her face widened as she turned back to the enlisted. Let him mope. She'd never seen Zhanna happy without drowning herself in vodka. Odd.</p>
<p>Sveta took a drink of her alcohol. It calmed the nerves a bit. She rolled her shoulders back, letting her neck muscle relax. Focus on the war. Then she could worry about Beria later. Here in France it was just her, vodka, Zhanna, and the Americans. At least the Americans were better than the NKVD.</p>
<p>They fell into formation. Before long the battalions started the march towards their next target. Sveta ended up taking her usual spot with Harry at the head of First Platoon. She stayed quiet. Instead she listened.</p>
<p>The men grumbled and groaned. Each step weighed heavy on their bodies and their morale. The rhythmic pounding of boots against the hard ground filled the air, along with the brushing together of jackets and metals. Along a hedgerow, they marched for close to an hour.</p>
<p>"Incoming!"</p>
<p>Sveta didn't need the scream to recognize the sound of war. At the shrill whistle of an artillery shell, she dove to the ground, scrambling towards the hedges. Chaos ensued. Men shouted, screaming. Someone started crying for a medic. Machine gun fire opened up. Sveta grabbed a fallen soldier on her right as she ran and heaved. The force threw him forward a few feet. Had that been Hoobler?</p>
<p>Regardless, she pushed the stumbling man forward again as she covered her own neck. Explosions rocked the ground. Sveta fell, bumping into a tree briefly as she got to safety. It didn't take long for her to drop to her stomach, pull out her American rifle, and start locating the enemy.</p>
<p>Or, it wouldn't have taken long if she'd been able to see them. But she couldn't. Sveta swore in her mother tongue. There were no German bodies in sight. Nothing to put a bullet through. Beside her, another soldier dropped to his stomach. He and a partner deployed their machine gun. Then Martin came up on her left.</p>
<p>"They're dug in or behind their own hedgerows," Sveta shouted over the noise. "Nothing to shoot at. Just lay down covering fire while I go track down the officers!"</p>
<p>He nodded at her, and she pushed herself back to her feet. As the Americans and the Germans faced off, paratrooper against paratrooper, she scrambled with her head down to find the other lieutenants. Harry and Winters crouched together, shouting over the drone of machine guns. Luz knelt beside them, working at the radio. He shoved it into Winters' hand as she reached them.</p>
<p>The chaos continued for nearly half an hour. Then the Germans stopped shelling, the Americans stopped panicking, and everyone dug foxholes. They found themselves in a standoff.</p>
<p>Winters passed the news at the two hour mark that they'd been ordered to sit tight and wait for further instructions. It didn't surprise Sveta. Half the job of a soldier was waiting on orders. So she just dug her foxhole and tried to get comfortable.</p>
<p>With nightfall came rainfall. Gordon and More and their machine gun occupied the foxhole on her right. To her left, Blithe and Martin. But she had her own, to herself, alone.</p>
<p>When she'd checked up with Zhanna an hour previous, everything had been fine in Second Platoon. She'd been fine in Second Platoon. So Sveta had just returned to her post.</p>
<p>As rain soaked her muddied hole, Sveta wrapped her arms around her chest. If it hadn't been for the downpour, the air would've been warm. But stuck in a muddy hole, rain pounding down around her, dripping down her metal helmet and into her eyes, Sveta shivered. In the dark she couldn't see much. She could barely see the edge of her hole.</p>
<p>It felt like a grave.</p>
<p>Six hours into their standoff, Sveta still couldn't sleep. The Germans had started up a song. Their voices haunted her mind. They reminded her of the Eastern Front, of the men and women she'd seen killed or mutilated. Germany sang as Russia burned.</p>
<p>A few meters over, she just barely made out Harry's voice. She couldn't make sense of the words, but before long, quiet fell interrupted only by the soft but constant patter of rain on the leaves and saturated earth. Sveta shivered again, looking at the dark void of the earthen wall in front of her. Just like a grave.</p>
<p>"Samsonova."</p>
<p>Sveta glanced up, grabbing her gun. But she relaxed a bit when she recognized Winters' voice. He crouched at the edge of her foxhole.</p>
<p>"Winters?"</p>
<p>"Just thought I'd see how you're doing," he told her. "You've got your own hole?"</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. She pushed herself to her feet and scrambled out. Mud caked her hands just like the rest of the uniform. It took effort to wipe it off onto her chest. But she just shrugged, picking a lie that would be easy for the man to accept. "I work better alone. What's the situation?"</p>
<p>His silence betrayed his indecision. But he didn't comment on her solitude. Instead, he just carried on. "The Germans dug in."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "We caught them on their way back to Carentan."</p>
<p>"Yeah. We'll attack at 0530 provided they don't come before that." He frowned, and turned to look back down the line. "Could you walk the line? Buck's busy organizing Third and I have no idea where Harry is."</p>
<p>"Try the next foxhole," she told him. He looked at her in surprise. With a tiny smirk, she tried to explain. "I heard him."</p>
<p>"In this weather?"</p>
<p>"I hear a lot, Lieutenant," she reminded him.</p>
<p>Winters nodded. "Right. Well, try to walk the line in the next half hour. If there's nothing to report, don't."</p>
<p>As she acknowledged his order, Winters offered her a tight smile and moved away with a slight limp. Soon she found herself alone, surrounded by trees and shrubs and foxholes filled with Americans. But she had a job. So Sveta stuffed down the burning ache of anger in her chest and moved down the soggy line.</p>
<p>She moved in the direction of Second Platoon. Muttered voices occasionally interrupted the German chorus line across the field. Each foxhole she checked up on spared her a brief nod, maybe a word or two, and then she moved on.</p>
<p>A shout and then strangled cry made her shiver. Sveta wasted no time. The voices weren't too far. Pushing past a thick bunch of trees, she skidded to a halt just as the call went up for a medic. Gun raised, she took in the scene.</p>
<p>Someone, Talbert maybe, collapsed against a tree. At his side, Liebgott ripped off his jacket. Beyond them, trembling in a foxhole, hands shaking, eyes wide, Private Smith blubbered out incoherently. No Germans. Just Americans.</p>
<p>"You gotta breathe!" Liebgott demanded of Talbert. "Look at me, look at me."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I can breathe!"</p>
<p>Sveta put down her gun and slowed her own breathing. She dropped beside Liebgott. Both he and Talbert stared at her in shock. "You can gawk later," she snapped. "What happened?"</p>
<p>Talbert struggled against the pain. He tried to catch his breath. "Smith fucking stabbed me."</p>
<p>"Bayonet?" she surmised.</p>
<p>Liebgott nodded. He'd finally gotten the jacket off. As Sveta whipped out her cigarette lighter, they were interrupted again. Doc Roe dropped down to her left, not sparing them a glance. She stood back, hauling Liebgott away by the jacket.</p>
<p>"Bayonet wound, lower left abdomen," Sveta informed Roe. "No sulfa, no morphine."</p>
<p>Roe looked up at her and nodded before turning back to Talbert. The man gritted his teeth, head pushed back against the tree as Roe prodded at the wound. Sveta turned to where Liebgott had started yelling at Smith.</p>
<p>"Fuck! He's our own man, Smithy!"</p>
<p>"He looked like a Kraut," Smith objected again.</p>
<p>Sveta stepped between. "Liebgott!" At her sharp hiss, he turned on her instead of Smith. She saw the furious, burning anger in his eyes. Sveta stood her ground. "You pulled a German raincoat off Talbert. He was dressed like a Kraut!"</p>
<p>"What's going on?"</p>
<p>They all turned to find Speirs coming over, gun slightly raised. Dog Company wasn't far from them. He took in the scene, Roe bent over a writhing Talbert, Liebgott attempting to tower over Sveta, and the haunted look on Smith's face.</p>
<p>"Sergeant Talbert was stabbed by a bayonet," Sveta explained. "It's being handled."</p>
<p>Speirs nodded, eyes lingering on the medic and his patient for a bit more. But then he walked over to them. "You did this, Private?"</p>
<p>Smith looked terrified. He looked even more panicked than he had after stabbing one of his own NCOs. But as he struggled to find his voice, Sveta just sighed. She stepped in.</p>
<p>"Talbert had put on a German raincoat. In the dark he looked like the enemy."</p>
<p>Liebgott still glared at the ground at her feet. But Smith took a deep breath. He let himself deflate a little, moving closer to their end of the foxhole.</p>
<p>"Good work, then," Speirs told him. "Your NCOs should be more careful."</p>
<p>Sveta agreed with him, but said nothing. Just as she worried that the anger building up inside Liebgott would explode at Speirs, Roe interrupted them.</p>
<p>"I gotta get him to the aid station," Roe told them. "Liebgott, take his other side."</p>
<p>"No." Sveta stopped him, putting an arm out. "Stay on the line. I'll help."</p>
<p>Again, the enlisted looked at her like she'd grown a second head. But Sveta didn't have time for this. She crouched down, throwing Talbert's left arm over her shoulders. "Lieutenant Speirs, report this to one of Easy's officers."</p>
<p>He nodded. With Talbert over her shoulders and Roe pulling from the other side, she moved off. Liebgott could look out for himself. Smith could too. He had to. Either Liebgott would kill him, or the Germans, or he'd learn to handle this all himself.</p>
<p>Talbert groaned again. She could feel the wound at his side warmer than the rest of his body. With each step, she felt him tensing. Sveta grimaced.</p>
<p>"Shit," Talbert hissed out, voice full of pain. "God damnit."</p>
<p>"Almost there, Tab," Roe assured him.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't know where the aid station had been set up. But it couldn't have been far. As they broke from the treeline and headed towards an open bit of field, she grimaced. In the dark they couldn't see their footing well. She hoped Roe knew where he was going.</p>
<p>The aid station had been set up near another group of trees. Just as she worried that Talbert would pass out from the pain, his effort already minimal as they all but dragged him along, they found it. Spina and another medic were sorting boxes.</p>
<p>"Spina! Where's the Captain?"</p>
<p>At Roe's call, Spina and the other medic spun around. He saw Talbert suspended between them. Spina turned to the other man, barked an order, and then hurried the rest of the way to them. She allowed him to take Talbert off her hands.</p>
<p>They moved together. In the dark, Sveta almost forgot they were Americans. All medics had the same drive and responsibility, no matter their colors. They could've been Russian, if not for the English spilling from their lips. As the surgeon joined them, Sveta released a long breath.</p>
<p>She turned away. Looking back across the field, she tried to relax. His wound had looked relatively minor. It would need thorough sterilization and stitching, but probably wouldn't require too much time in a hospital. He'd gotten lucky.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant."</p>
<p>Turning back around, Sveta found Spina walking over. He wiped his hands on his paratrooper pants, whether out of habit or to remove Talbert's blood she couldn't tell. But she offered him a small smile.</p>
<p>"Thanks for the help," he told her. "Captain says he'll be fine."</p>
<p>"Good."</p>
<p>Spina stood level with her. After another few beats of silence, he turned her way. "You ain't so bad, you know."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Ah you know the guys hate yah," he told her. "Well, maybe not hate. Not anymore."</p>
<p>Sveta rolled her eyes. But she nodded. "No one tried to keep it a secret."</p>
<p>Spina grimaced. "Yeah. Well." He shrugged, turning to face her, then gestured to the Battalion Aid Station where Roe now sat drinking from his canteen while the surgeon worked. "Talbert said to say thank you."</p>
<p>Her eyebrows raised a bit. A reply caught in her throat. She didn't really know what to say. A quick glance back at where she could see the surgeon hovering over him made her pause. She turned to Spina. "Morphine will make you say all sorts of things, Spina."</p>
<p>He laughed. With a wide smile, Spina just shook his head. He said no more. Instead, he just meandered back towards Battalion Aid, downing some water from his canteen. With a last look at the surgeon working and the medics by his side, she sighed. Sveta turned back to the line. She had a job to do. And she had a lonely foxhole to fill.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. ...my head down low...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>The dew had soaked through her shirtfront by the second hour. By the time the sun had begun to rise, Zhanna was damp and miserable. It was an uncomfortable position at best but she couldn't deny its strategic weight. Alone in this line of bushes, Zhanna's only source of light had been the faint pinpricks of cigarettes from either treeline. German or American, she had a perfect view of what would soon turn into chaos in the pink dawn.</p>
<p>No one had wanted her to break off from the main line, where it was sure to be safe and there was plenty of backup but she reminded them that this was what Zhanna did. She was a sniper and fighting alone was what she was good at. While sitting and waiting in the foxholes of the American line had been a safe move, it wasn't going to help them in the coming battle. Zhanna could flank the enemy, providing a closer view of their line of defense and give an edge to the next morning's battle. Winters had agreed, after some consideration. Strayer, still shocked by her work in Carentan, had allowed it without question. Zhanna was, after all, not one of his men and if she was lost, he wouldn't, as he said, "lose any sleep over it."</p>
<p>Buck's protest had been out of concern and while Sveta hadn't joined her, she did exchange a hurried good luck, before the blonde had wriggled out of the foxhole and into the darkness. Zhanna had crawled through the grass to a line of bushes that looked out of the German line, the American line and the field between the two. Forming the first hide she had made since the battle of Smolensk had been strange but the branches and leaves gave her cover in the now rising sun.</p>
<p>Zhanna's rifle was resting against her shoulder and she could only wait for the first shot to be fired before beginning her private assault on the Germans. The hours before she had left the American line had been eventful. They had lost Talbert to a friendly bayonet and Zhanna had listened to the German line croon a cry of victory over a battle that hadn't been fought yet. Winters, when he had paused at Buck and Zhanna's foxhole to check on them, had seemed nervous. As nervous as Lieutenant Winters could be. Nerves never showed obviously on the man but appeared in a furrowed brow or a pursed lip. His brow had been furrowed when she had suggested flanking the enemy. He couldn't deny that it was a tactical move but Winters had told her to be careful.</p>
<p>As if Zhanna wasn't cautious enough. Agata had raised her to be vigilant, if not paranoid. It was the only reason she was alive today. Watching the sky slowly turn pink with the rising sun, Zhanna was reminded of mornings in the Samsonov home, when she would rise before Sveta or Veronika and sit in the window seat on the landing and watch the sunrise. She would always face the west, knowing that that same sun was rising over her parents. She would imagine them safe in Poland with family. Now, the vision was so familiar Zhanna didn't even have to try to conjure it. The image of her parents and her grandparents safe was the strength she needed to fix her eyes on the German line as the first shot was fired in the Airborne's defensive.</p>
<p>The silence that had stretched over the field was now broken, shattered like ice. That first shot had left the air weakened, ready to be filled with the heavy artillery. All images of happy families and safety were replaced with the harsh reality of the present. Zhanna's hands found familiar purchase over the rifle and began to pick her targets.</p>
<p>The Germans ran through the line, a few heads bobbing above the bushes didn't offer much in the way of a target but Zhanna wasn't discouraged. She was feeling more confident after Carentan, the rust loosened from her fingers and shedding like red snow. Zhanna had worked so hard to be a loyal Russian and a good soldier. All her work was coming back to her now.</p>
<p>The few soldiers who had been foolish enough to look above the bushline fell to the ground, Zhanna's bullets finding their mark. She settled into the steady rhythm. Zhanna's mind and instinct took over the well oiled machine that was her muscle memory and began to fire her rifle without a single thought. She would sight her target, let out a low exhale that rustled the leaves of her hide, and then squeeze the trigger. Sight, exhale, squeeze. Sight, exhale, squeeze.</p>
<p>It was familiar. It was a beat that her heart fell into line with. It was comforting like the hebrew lullabies her mother would sing or the soft exclamations in Polish that her father refused to abandon, no matter how dangerous. It was familiar. The relationship between Zhanna and her fiel was that of a family. A bond that had been strengthened by loss and experience.</p>
<p>Zhanna sighted a German as he sped along the length of the line, exhaling sharply. The leaves rattled. As she squeezed the trigger and the German hit the dirt, the leaves kept rattling. Long after the breath had left her lungs. The rattling spread, shaking the twigs and settling in the pit of her stomach. It shook every bone in her body, her teeth quaking in her jaw. Zhanna paused the rhythm of the bond, looking over her shoulder through the cracks in her hide as the rattling grew in ferocity. It turned from rattling to the rumbling of thunder, growing and growing as the sound of an engine grew closer. It wasn't her breath or the brewing of a storm. The creak of metal edged closer and Zhanna used one of the choice Polish exclamations that Casimir saved for times of particular stress. Tanks were emerging from the treeline and Zhanna's hide was directly in their path.</p>
<p>Zhanna pushed aside the branches and leaves that had concealed her and started to crawl frantically away. All her thoughts of caution and paranoia hadn't prepared her for the impending danger of being crushed by a German Stug. She managed to slither through the treeline moments before the tanks plowed through the saplings, where Zhanna had spent the night sheltering.</p>
<p>She hadn't anticipated crawling through the open field that she had spent hours watching the night before. Shouts from the American line declared that they had seen the tank and were now voicing their displeasure. Zhanna didn't have time to be annoyed, not when she was clawing her way through the grass.</p>
<p>Her hearing was a buzzed overtone, a thousand bees in her ears, dulling out the shouts and screams of pain or fear. Her nails dug into the soft dirt, pulling herself along the field much slower than she would have liked. Zhanna couldn't lift her head without fear of a bullet or a grenade sending shrapnel into her face. She was blind and submissive to this battle. No amount of scrambling could get her clear fast enough. The tanks were still rumbling behind her, its shells exploding before her.</p>
<p>The dirt under her nails and the furious scrabbling at the grass wasn't giving her enough speed. The tanks were gaining on her and the bush line where her platoon mates lay was still several meters away. Zhanna would have to run for it.</p>
<p>Her legs trembled as she bunched them under her, preparing to spring. The first few steps were weightless, buoyant with the danger of the tanks behind her and the encouragement of the men shouting before her.</p>
<p>"Casmirovna! Let's go!"</p>
<p>"What the hell is she doing?"</p>
<p>She saw the shell before it exploded. The silver cylinder buried itself deep in the green and brown ground a few meters away. Silver like the necklace she had buried. The shell burst before her eyes, shattering any visions of home that might have surfaced. Zhanna, still propelled by the sprinting motion, flew forward. Ears still ringing and body cracking on impact. Every bone in her body felt like ice, brittle and shards scattered. Her rifle dug into her spine, and she couldn't move. She couldn't move and she was out in the open.</p>
<p>Only a few moments prior she had been safe in the bushes, in a carefully crafted hide. Zhanna had been as safe as she could be. And now she was out in the open, the sun bright on her pale skin. She couldn't hear. She couldn't think. Zhanna could only feel the shaking of the ground and the sun on her skin. She was melting, her body of ice bare to the sun. Movement seemed impossible. Something trickled down her neck and into her hair. Was she really melting?</p>
<p>Despite her numbness, something started to pull her toward the American line. Or was it the German line? She didn't know where she was anymore. Just the sky above her.</p>
<p>"Kto są wy?" She murmured. When they didn't reply, she opened her mouth to try again but all words were thrown from her. Zhanna tumbled down a slope and her view of the sky was replaced with swimming faces and leaves.</p>
<p>Winters's voice cut through the echo of her mind, the buzzing and the screams. Had he been the one to pull her clear? "Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>Blindly, she turned toward his voice. His voice was heavy with concern. She blinked, clearing smoke from her eyes. Her hand, when traced against the wetness at the base of her neck, came away stained in red. Her fingertips bloody and her ears still ringing, she threw her rifle aside. Winters stayed by her a moment. His hand, helping her sit upright, lingered to support her. It wasn't until Zhanna gave his shoulder a shove and nodded towards the line, where a battle was still being fought and coughed out. "Go," that he left her.</p>
<p>Sat in the dirt, watching the platoons fire madly and the machine guns rattle, Zhanna felt numb again. She couldn't hear, Winters had left her. She didn't know where Buck or Sveta were. She was an island in the catastrophe of her solo mission. Swaying in the current and melting in the sun. She didn't know what to do, so she did the only thing she could.</p>
<p>Zhanna pushed her way through men, shouldering her way between Liebgott and Welsh, pulling her rifle back to her shoulder. She sighted her first target and pulled the trigger. After that it was all a blur. Explosions, bodies hitting the ground. The German line disintegrating when the American Armored pushed through, sending the Panzers fleeing and the German soldiers running for their lives. Zhanna kept firing, the only thing she could think to do was to pull that familiar trigger.</p>
<p>The weight was familiar in her hands no matter the pounding in her head or the blood trickling from her ear. She didn't stop firing, not when the Germans had disappeared from sight. Zhanna fired one, two, three more times until a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. She whirled around, lashing out at the sudden contact. Buck raised his hands in a calming gesture, showing he meant no harm. Zhanna looked around. Their own line was starting to pull back, encouraged by their victory though some grumbled about Dog company's lack of assistance. The injured were being pulled away and those left were passing around cigarettes.</p>
<p>"How was your trip?" Buck asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.</p>
<p>"A blast," Zhanna muttered, swiping her sleeve along her cheek in the attempt to mop up the blood. "I'm fine," She said, shrugging off Buck's concern. She wasn't. She still couldn't hear from her left side and, though the pain had subsided, her vision was still a little blurry around the edges. She didn't want to go to a med tent or leave the line. "What happened to the Dogs?"</p>
<p>"High-tailed it at the first sign of the tanks," Buck said grimly. His dirt-streaked face was hard and she could easily see the annoyance in his eyes. "Left you out in the open too. If I could give Speirs a piece of my mind..."</p>
<p>His voice trailed away. Zhanna didn't think it was all Speirs's fault. Men followed orders until they couldn't. Whether it was survival or cowardice, they couldn't follow the order. She understood that but Buck didn't yet. He was still the sports star, all-american boy. His eyes were as bright as the American Dream and he hadn't received the cruel awakening of war yet. He was a good ally but he didn't always understand.</p>
<p>"If you see him," Zhanna said, reaching a hand up for Buck to lift her onto her feet. "Tell him thank you for the cigarettes."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. ...what's worth fighting for...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Training had done something for the Americans, that much was clear. They couldn't march to save their lives, but they could fight. At least Easy Company could. Carentan had proved as much, as had the counterattack that followed, and the skirmishes since. Sveta found the sounds of war comforting. Zhanna wanted to be as far up and out as possible; it offered control, a bird's-eye view. But Sveta knew that with bullets flying left and right, she had found herself as far from the grasp of Lavrentiy Beria as she could ever get.</p>
<p>And if she died from a German bullet, that meant she didn't risk dying from a Russian one.</p>
<p>The sun began to set on the crumbling town the Americans had claimed. The stones, usually a pale tan, almost white, glowed nearly gold against the red, darkening sky. Sveta took a deep breath, then a long drink. She stood along a wall, a low archway just behind her over the street. The drink that soothed her throat calmed her nerves and her muscles. In the quiet, ravaged French towns, Sveta felt much closer to Beria, to Stalin, to her father. She almost missed the danger, the thrill of a firefight. She wondered if she would get to hear the bullet that would ultimately find her?</p>
<p>She knew one would. But her bullets would find their ways into many Germans before that happened, and better to die defending her home than to die because of it.</p>
<p>"Samsonova."</p>
<p>Sveta turned left. Nixon moved over to her, flask in hand, the setting sun casting shadows over his face as he turned from it. She stood straighter. "Nixon."</p>
<p>"Have you seen Lieutenant Compton?"</p>
<p>He came to stand in front of her. Sveta looked him in the eyes. She hated that he stood several inches over her. All the officers did except for Welsh and so without a sound, she shook her head. But he didn't leave. "I don't keep tabs on him, Nixon. I'm not a spy."</p>
<p>His smirk grew, but he didn't comment on her jab. "If you see him, send him to Easy's CP. Do the same for Harry."</p>
<p>As he walked away, Sveta couldn't help but get in one more comment. "Are you acting as Sink's messenger pigeon, now?" She saw his movements halt. Sveta didn't even try to suppress her smile as he moved away without looking at her. "You're suited for it."</p>
<p>Sveta reached into her breast pocket. A frown replaced her smile as she realized there were no more cigarettes. Just her luck. Grumbling out a curse, she let her head lay back against the bricks.</p>
<p>"Now, see, if I still had my cigarette pack I could give you one."</p>
<p>Speirs. She tried not to grin as she saw him move over from the door across the street. Dog Company had taken a few of the houses there, with Easy across from them. The starkly contrasting lines of camouflage that had adorned his face on D-Day had faded, replaced instead by a layer of dirt and grime they all had gained. Contrary to his comment, a lit cigarette hung from his mouth.</p>
<p>"You should guard your cigarettes more closely, Speirs, if Casmirovna can steal them," Sveta said, voice even. But then she cracked a smile. "Besides, I've been warned not to accept your cigarettes."</p>
<p>He just shrugged in return. "Yeah, might have to shoot you, then."</p>
<p>"You wouldn't be the first to try."</p>
<p>Silence fell between them again. Sveta let her head rest against the bricks. Without her helmet, she could feel every bump and sharpened edge. But she didn't care. The steady hum of enlisted and officers mulling about, checking weapons and ammo and medical supplies, the trucks rolling through; it made her almost sleepy as she stood with Speirs. The smoke coming from his cigarette helped, too.</p>
<p>"Any word on that sergeant of yours?"</p>
<p>Sveta opened her eyes again. Speirs had joined her against the wall. In the twilight, she realized that the eyes she had thought were dark were hazel. She paused. But then she looked away, back across the street. "Sergeant Talbert? Doc Roe told me they shipped him back to England," Sveta said.</p>
<p>"I figured."</p>
<p>England. Sveta wondered what the Allies were saying about the Normandy invasion. Last she'd heard from Intelligence about Russia, the fighting near Leningrad had intensified. Hopefully, the Allied victory in the West would help their morale. The Germans were more equipped to fight in a Russian summer than the winter. But her people knew the Motherland better than any Kraut ever could.</p>
<p>"There you are, lurking as usual."</p>
<p>Sveta leaned away from the wall and looked past Speirs. Harry moved over to them, taking a drink from his canteen. She rolled her eyes. "What do you want, Harry?"</p>
<p>"Jesus, don't sound so happy to see me." Then he turned away from her and nodded. "Speirs."</p>
<p>"Welsh."</p>
<p>"We're needed at the CP," Harry told her. "Casmirovna and Compton just left on a patrol. Shouldn't be gone too long, but Dick wants to talk to us."</p>
<p>She nodded. "Right." It took all her mental strength to push off the wall and away from the steady bricks. As she did so, releasing a long, silent breath, she felt a hand on her arm. Sveta looked at Speirs.</p>
<p>"Here."</p>
<p>She cracked a smile at the outstretched cigarette he offered her. His hands were a bit rough as she took it from him. "Thank you. Apparently some Americans do have manners." At his tiny smirk, she laughed.</p>
<p>Welsh just shook his head as she turned back to him and they started towards the CP. He watched her struggle with her zippo lighter. "Being friends with him won't win you any support with the enlisted," he reminded her.</p>
<p>If Sveta hadn't spent the past few months getting to know Harry, she would've snapped at him for his comment. Instead, she just rolled her eyes as the fire finally caught. The smoke filled her mouth and as she released it, Sveta chastised him. "You should know me better than that, Harry."</p>
<p>"What, that you don't care if the enlisted don't like you?"</p>
<p>"And that I don't have friends."</p>
<p>"Right. I forgot."</p>
<p>Even as they moved across the broken square, rounding a fallen statue to some Christian saint, darkness fell. Sveta wondered why they'd sent a patrol out this late, especially one with two officers. She'd have to talk to Zhanna when she got back. Or at least see what she could weasel out of Nixon over a bottle of whiskey. As stones crunched beneath her boots, Sveta could feel the shadows deepening. Most of the enlisted had gone off to grab some sleep between guard shifts, and the officers were likely in conference or doing the same.</p>
<p>They passed another obelisk, this dedicated to those from the first War to End All Wars. Sveta felt a pang of nostalgia hit her, thinking of the Square of Fallen Fighters back home. Did it still stand? Had the Germans destroyed the monuments in their razing of the Motherland? Sveta felt her throat clench, eyes stinging at the thought. They had no right. However much she hated Stalingrad, hated the name that spoke to the man who controlled her life, hated the memories it held, some part of it was and would always be home.</p>
<p>When they stepped inside the lamp-lit CP, they found Winters at a dining room table. Debris from shelling and gunfire had been swept to the sides, creating piles of destruction in all the corners that the lights just barely touched. He looked up as the door shut behind them.</p>
<p>"Oh, great. We just got some more Intel," Winters said. He gestured to a map that sat in front of him and a small set of notes. "Looks like we'll be in Normandy a while longer."</p>
<p>"Three days and three nights, eh?" Harry muttered.</p>
<p>But as Winters scoffed out a laugh, Sveta just rolled her eyes. She'd heard similar platitudes from her superiors in the Red Army once upon a time. She'd not believed it for one second from the American Army. No army kept promises like that. War was hell, not a vacation.</p>
<p>"What's the plan?" she asked.</p>
<p>Harry and Winters both glanced at her briefly before the latter outlined the German troop movements and the Allies' goals. With every passing minute, it seemed like the list of objectives would never end. But they did. By the time he'd finished explaining the intel from Sink, Sveta and Harry had both sat down and started sipping their canteens filled with alcohol. She needed the warmth.</p>
<p>"I've already brought Compton and Casmirovna up to speed," Winters said. He put down his water after a quick drink and gestured to the map. "As I get more information, I'll pass it on to you."</p>
<p>"If you get any information from Sink about Russia, do the same," Sveta reminded him. As they both looked at her, she sighed. It wasn't often she spoke of Russia to them. But the sight of the monuments in the square caused a deep ache in her chest. She wanted to see her home. She wanted to hear her language. Straightening up a bit, she raised her chin. "I am here fighting for Russia, Lieutenants, not for the French. It just so happens that you Americans are my way to do that."</p>
<p>Harry snorted out a laugh, but Winters nodded. "I'll let you know if I hear anything."</p>
<p>"See that you do," she agreed. As a thick tension lingered in the air, Sveta released a silent sigh. "Thank you."</p>
<p>As they turned to her, even Winters unable to hide his shock, Sveta tried her hardest not to smirk. They forgot that she was as much a politician as a soldier when circumstances called for that mask. Standing away from the table, the wooden chair scraping against the crumbled debris, she nodded at him. "If that's it?"</p>
<p>"Yeah. Yeah it is," Winters said.</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "Good."</p>
<p>Her hands went to undo her crown brain even before she'd left the dining room. The pins hurt her head. With the stairs creaking beneath her boots, Sveta made her way upstairs. First, hair. Then she'd try to work what grime she could off her face. After that, sleep. Then in the morning, maybe she'd check in with Zhanna. Provided her friend wasn't too busy fraternizing with the Americans to speak with her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. ...better dead than in hell...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>The use of Zhanna's ear did not return after a night's rest. Doc Roe had examined her, with the promise of no hospital stay, and told her that time would only tell. If her hearing did return, it would not be for a few weeks. Some might have considered this a tragedy but Zhanna saw it as a new opportunity. Sitting with Muck and Malarkey on her left, she could successfully enjoy peace and quiet in their company. If this was a permanent solution she might have been happy, deep down.</p>
<p>Buck's concern hadn't worn off.</p>
<p>"You could have been seriously wounded," Buck had scolded.</p>
<p>While his concern was heartwarming, Zhanna couldn't help but brush it aside. It could have happened to anyone and Zhanna was lucky. She had only a minor injury. There were men whose lives had ended or been torn apart by the same battle. The river of life didn't mark that battle as Zhanna's ending. It couldn't, not when she had still had so much left to do. The men of Easy were starting to relax around her now. She was still a stranger but perhaps they had thawed towards her, becoming more open to a Russian's presence. They joked about how far she had flown when the shell exploded, saying that she had sprouted wings.</p>
<p>Sveta's concern was deeper than Buck's. She had warned Zhanna to be careful. While they both knew that they could take care of themselves, there was still concern. Zhanna worried when Sveta was out of her sight, praying to the sunny sky that she was safe. She could only assume that Sveta did likewise. They were close, bound together by chains and shared experience. While they both knew how to take care of themselves, they both had to get home to Russia. Sveta, for her father and her family's name. Zhanna for her parents and to make that final payment.</p>
<p>Zhanna, despite Buck's worry and Muck's joking that she was going to get himself killed this time, volunteered for a patrol. They had been in Normandy for weeks || and no one seemed to know when they were leaving. Zhanna hadn't had a shower in days, a proper meal in longer, and she hadn't had a full night's rest without bugs crawling over her. While this wasn't much different from her brief time in the field, it was uncomfortable nevertheless. She endeavored to remain busy, to pass the time spent in this part of France as quickly as possible. Her hearing still faded on the left-side, though the bleeding had stopped, and her body sore and bruised from her shattered fall onto the ground.</p>
<p>Her knees were sore, as she knelt on the ground in that copse of trees, watching the white building rise out of the patch of green. If she was sent to scope out the land, she would settle herself in that building that boasted a vantage point of the surrounding area. Zhanna knew they were being watched. Zhanna knew that a sniper or a rifleman was in one of those windows, but she couldn't pick it out.</p>
<p>Welsh never asked for volunteers. He knew that silence would rest heavily over the men until he would, at long last, have to pick out the unlucky few who would approach the house and, knowingly become bullet fodder. It was a tough hand to be dealt and Zhanna knew that no one would volunteer. So she did.</p>
<p>Zhanna usually did. Anything to pass the time spent in France. Nothing to distract from the heavy weight of her family and how her feet were on the same continent as her homeland. Poland, somewhere over the horizon. But Zhanna couldn't think about home, or her family. Not when there was still so much to be done. Not when there was a house to clear and her mind was still gummy from the shell blast.</p>
<p>Her unwilling companions were Blithe, Martin, and Dukeman. Johnny Martin's face was characteristically glum while Dukeman had a foul look etched deep into his features. Blithe's face was blank, completely unreadable.</p>
<p>Blithe had found courage somewhere in the foxholes of Carentan. He was now steady and had a grimmer sense of resolve about him. As if he accepted his fate, be that death or life. Zhanna supposed that there were some orders that life gave you that simply couldn't be attested. She supposed that if life had your death written out, there was only so long you could avoid it. Survival was a language she spoke and a life she led but it wasn't attainable. Zhanna could only cheat life's plan for so long.</p>
<p>As they crept forward, Zhanna's limbs seemed to move slower than the rest. Part of the struggle was keeping her rifle pinned to her shoulder and steady as she walked. But she had been moving slower, like walking through water, since her brush with the explosion. Her hearing hadn't been the only thing that had suffered. It seemed Zhanna was sluggish now, half-awake, half-asleep.</p>
<p>Her body didn't move fast enough to react when Blithe, who had been walking confidently beside her, fell to the ground. She caught the echo of the shot in her good ear, watching him lay in the delicate ferns, writhing as blood gushed across her American boots. American blood spilling over American boots. Zhanna caught the echo of the shot but missed the second one, amid the shouts and the cries for medics. The second shot was disguised but the sudden pain in her shoulder couldn't be. She cried out, hand clamping to her shoulder. The rifle clattered to the ferns, the last sound Zhana heard before the buzzing started again.</p>
<p>Her small frame was knocked off balance and she too sank into ferns. Blithe's blood was warm and sticky, the scent salty sweet. She looked over, their injuries seemed to blur together. American and Russian- no, she corrected herself, Polish- bled together in that bright forest. Someone was shouting for covering fire. Doc Roe's face came into view but Zhanna looked past him into the patches of blue sky still visible between the trees overhead. Blue sky and the bright yellow sun. Pressing her hand tightly over the wound, as instructed, Zhanna smiled to herself. It seemed Life was reminding her just how delicate her balance was. She could only cheat its plan for so long.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. ...this empty house...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Loneliness always hit Sveta when she was anything but alone. Standing in line for food from the Battalion cook, she could hear a chorus of American accents droning on around her. Some she could place; in her many months with them she'd learned to distinguish Philadelphia from Texas, and Texas from Southern California. But just because she could place them generally didn't mean Sveta knew who they all belonged to.</p>
<p>Standing with her meager cup of beans in the shadow of a tree, the sun starting to dip towards the horizon, she missed Zhanna even more. Instead of two Russians against a sea of Americans, she had only herself. Snipers always worked in pairs. Since Benning they'd been often separated, but not like this. Not with an ocean between them.</p>
<p>She took a deep breath. She'd lost track of the other officers. Winters probably stood in conference with Nixon and Strayer somewhere. Where Harry or Compton had gone off to, she couldn't even guess. An ache settled deep in her chest. Why did it bother her? Why did their disappearance without her make her heart hurt? They weren't friends.</p>
<p>Friends.</p>
<p>Zhanna had friends. She had Skip Muck, Buck Compton, Alex Penkala, Don Malarkey. They'd taken it hard, when the medical personnel had rushed her with Private Blithe to the field hospital, and not long after, across the channel to England. It had surprised her. She'd never expected to see any of the Americans caring if either of them got shot. But Zhanna had friends.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't have friends.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't even really have allies.</p>
<p>She took another deep breath. A couple of men from Dog Company strolled past accompanied by Powers and McClung. The smiles on their faces starkly contrasted the permanent dirt and grime. She wanted that. It had been years since she'd yearned for a reason to smile. And yet in the American base camp, surrounded by men who had spent over a year making her life miserable, that's exactly what she wanted.</p>
<p>A breeze ruffled her hair as she undid her braids. They'd begun to hurt her head, and here, off the line where they had showers however crude, where they could walk around without helmets, she decided it would be safe to take them out. Her fingers stuck against knotted tangles. Too bad those crude showers couldn't really wash out the weeks of foxholes and flooded fields. And she certainly wouldn't use them without Zhanna to watch her back.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, want some coffee?"</p>
<p>At Doc Roe's voice, Sveta turned from her inspection of the grounds. Roe held out a tin cup. He didn't smile. It didn't surprise her; she knew he now understood the conversation they'd had in the Aldbourne pub about the hell medics went through. He'd saved Zhanna. But there had been many that had died despite his best efforts. That was war.</p>
<p>So she offered him what little smile she could conjure. "Thank you." She looked him over more closely. His tall frame seemed smaller than she remembered it. He held himself closer, shoulders more hunched but his brown eyes no colder. After tasting the coffee, she tried not to grimace. She failed.</p>
<p>Roe just snorted out a small laugh. "It ain't the best, but uh, it's what we got."</p>
<p>"Better than nothing," she agreed. "How are your supplies holding up? If we're put back on the line, do you have enough? If not, I can track some down."</p>
<p>He sighed. "We got a good amount. Could always use more morphine," he admitted. But then he gestured back behind himself. "Spina's been making the rounds, tryin' to get what he can."</p>
<p>"Roe." Sveta stopped herself for a moment. But it needed to be said. "Thank you."</p>
<p>"Coffee's no trouble—"</p>
<p>"No," she corrected. "For Lieutenant Casmirovna. I heard it was you that made sure she stayed alive."</p>
<p>He shuffled where he stood. His hands went into his pockets, folding his sleeves back a bit. But he nodded. "It's my job."</p>
<p>Sveta changed the subject, getting the attention off of him. She could see his discomfort in his fidgeting. "How's Spina doing, and Easy?"</p>
<p>"Not bad, I don't think." To her surprise, he looked at her, making eye contact. Very few of the men did that. It was like they thought she'd burn them with her dark eyes. Roe continued on. "Some men are hangin' by the tents, playing poker, if you wanna ask 'em yourself?"</p>
<p>Sveta didn't have friends. Sveta didn't even have allies. But she wanted them. She needed them.</p>
<p>Still, the prospect of seeing the distrust in their eyes made her waver. She didn't need them. She had Zhanna. But now, she didn't have Zhanna. Now, she was alone. A single Russian woman in an army of American men.</p>
<p>So she nodded. After a bit of a lingering glance, Roe turned away, and she followed. They passed several rows of tents, piles of boxes with machinery and tools. On some, men lounged with cigarettes and chocolate bars.</p>
<p>It didn't take long for Sveta to recognize a few voices. Luz, Muck, Penkala at least. Laughter followed a few choice curse words. As they rounded a last tent, she found them sitting on the ground, a small crate covered in cards.</p>
<p>"I mean damn, George! You gotta be cheating," Muck insisted. He tried to reach across and snag the deck Luz had shuffled.</p>
<p>"Ey! Just cause you ain't as good as I am at this doesn't mean I'm cheating." He swatted away Muck's hand. "Penk, back me up."</p>
<p>But he just snorted and shook his head. "I am not getting involved."</p>
<p>"C'mon, just—"</p>
<p>Luz rolled to the side, trying to avoid him. "Jesus Christ! Stop!" As he did so, he noticed Sveta and Roe for the first time. His eyes widened. "Lieutenant!"</p>
<p>The laughter cut off immediately. Before she could respond, Muck had stood and repeated what Luz said. That was new. She suppressed a smile. "At ease."</p>
<p>"Any news about Lieutenant Casmirovna, ma'am?" Penkala asked. "We don't hear much."</p>
<p>Sveta frowned. "I've not heard anything. I'll let you know if I do, though." Silence lingered between them as no one knew quite what to say. Sveta certainly didn't. She needed allies. She needed friends.</p>
<p>Sveta had never had friends. She'd had Zhanna of course, but that was different. That was friendship born out of necessity. It had been thrust into her lap, however grateful she was for it. Vasily Stalin had been a friend. But that was friendship born out of circumstance.</p>
<p>"I've never played poker," she finally said. Sveta allowed the edge of her mouth to slip upwards into a small smile.</p>
<p>"Really?" Luz asked. "Even bein' in the army before?"</p>
<p>That made Sveta smile, but not from fond memories. "No. The advance of the Nazis didn't allow for much down time." And even if it had, the women had avoided extra interaction with her. Everyone knew who she was. They knew the darkness that shadowed her moves as a Samsonova.</p>
<p>"It's not that hard," Muck told her. "You just gotta be good at bluffing."</p>
<p>Sveta let out a laugh. The sound seemed to startle them, as all three raised their eyebrows at the action. But she couldn't help it. She'd bluffed her way through life since 1935. And while the crafted masks had crumbled more and more each month after August 1940, she still knew how to bluff.</p>
<p>She looked to ask Roe if he'd play, but the man had disappeared. He'd left her with just the three at the card table. A simple choice. Walk away, or sit beside them. Luz had been the perpetrator of many a joke at her expense. His betting pool about how long it would take for her to snap had increased the men's vitriol in Aldbourne. Muck and Penkala had been civil, but never quite friendly.</p>
<p>But then, neither had she.</p>
<p>"I know how to bluff, Private," she assured Muck. "But I don't have money with me."</p>
<p>"I'll loan you a couple bucks," Penkala offered. "I wanna see you beat Luz."</p>
<p>Luz just scoffed. But he made space for her, shuffling the cards again. "She ain't gonna beat me, Penk. She's never played."</p>
<p>"Just you wait, George. Give it a couple hands. I'll put money on the Lieutenant," he added. Then he glanced at her, shutting his mouth fast. "That is, if you don't mind, ma'am."</p>
<p>Sveta offered him a small smile. As she took out her canteen and drank some Vat 69 she'd stolen from Nixon's stash that had been lying around, Sveta settled on the ground. "Tell me, Private. Why do you think I can win?"</p>
<p>Penkala just shrugged. After a quick glance at Muck and then Luz, he turned back to her. "Well, for one, you're friends with Lieutenant Speirs. That takes balls."</p>
<p>She glanced up at him, then the other two. Luz had stopped his card shuffling, Muck stopped wrestling with his cigarette pack. Penkala just shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. So she grinned.</p>
<p>"Deal me in."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. ...coming up for air...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zhanna couldn't avoid medical attention, no matter how she fumed. The bullet was removed in Normandy and while she had requested that she be patched up and sent along to a field camp with the rest of the 506th, the doctors and medics had declined her suggestion. She found herself bandaged up and shipped off to England, to a proper hospital with rows of beds and a sterile atmosphere. They were shocked to find a woman in their care and had only the standard cots with the enlisted available. The nurses and hospital staff apologized that they couldn't offer her another arrangement but Zhanna had assured them it was alright. She had been sleeping in the woods and in foxholes for the past few weeks. Inhabiting the same room as several male patients wouldn't be the death of her.</p>
<p>The wound was more serious than she had realized, passing under her collarbone and lodging itself next to her shoulder blade. It had damaged some muscle and Zhanna was told she would have to perform a rigorous retraining and strengthening regime to regain the use of her left arm. They had also taken a closer look at her hearing loss, announcing her eardrum hadn't been perforated and that her recovery looked promising. Zhanna had sighed, saying. "You can't imagine how Sergeant Talbert snores. I was hoping for a more permanent solution to my sleeplessness."</p>
<p>Floyd Talbert. Zhanna had missed his run in with a bayonet but had heard about it from Sveta. He had been placed in the bed next to her. Talbert wasn't thrilled to be reunited with one of the Russian lieutenants but he didn't grumble too much. As it turned out, he wasn't the only familiar face. Blithe, who was wrapped from the shoulders up in spotless white bandages, barely a strip of his face visible, was there too. Popeye Wynn who had been the victim of some ill placed shrapnel had been in the ward the longest, departing the company before Zhanna had rejoined them post D-day. And then Smokey Gordon, whose multiple injuries hadn't gone unnoticed by the brass. Zhanna had just gotten settled in the ward when they had awarded yet another purple heart to the brave soldier.</p>
<p>"In grateful acknowledgement of the blood shed for your country," the man, who's uniform seemed too clean to be a soldier or to have earned the medals on his chest, stood over the bed, offering yet another ribbon of purple to the insatiable appetite for validation of Smokey Gordon. "It is my honor to present you with the Order of the Purple Heart,"</p>
<p>The audience that had gathered for the award, clapped eagerly and, while Zhanna's arm was still in a sling, she did give Smokey a small smile, her version of congratulations. A flash of light burst into life from the camera's bulb as Smokey was forever immobilized with his medal proudly displayed. But as the guests cleared out and the ward returned to it's quiet normalcy, Popeye Wynn rolled over and asked. "How many does that make?"</p>
<p>Smokey didn't answer, only smirking, as Popeye guessed. "Two? Three?" Still, Smokey refused to answer, his smile only widening as Popeye scoffed. "You have no shame."</p>
<p>"<em>In grateful acknowledgment of the blood shed for your country."</em></p>
<p>What about the blood that had been shed for someone else's country? They couldn't spare a ribbon for someone who had fought repeatedly for another's homeland? Zhanna had fought twice. As a Pole in the Russian army and then a Russian in the American army. A ribbon wouldn't make up for the blood she had shed but the Americans had turned a blind eye to her own sacrifice. She shouldn't have been surprised. And she wasn't when Smokey peeled back his pillow to lay his new medal to rest with his collection.</p>
<p>"One for the hole in my shoulder, a second in my calf," He said, recounting the many injuries that had landed him in the hospital. "And then there is the boil on my shin that had to be lanced."</p>
<p>"We wouldn't want to forget that," Zhanna murmured. Her mother's voice was still whispering in the echoes of her mind, reminding her of the river. Don't push the river. Don't push the river. She couldn't force recognition, even if she wanted it. Which she didn't. Why would she want to be recognized for her sacrifice and the blood shed? She sat up in those crisp sheets and didn't push the river. She didn't care. She was alive, that's what mattered. Zhanna lived to fight another day which meant she was one step closer to home, to her parents, and to that safe place she wanted.</p>
<p>Blithe, motionless beside her and still wrapped in his bandage cocoon, had received one purple heart. If life was fair, which it wasn't as Casimir and Agata had taught her, Blithe would be the one with the hidden collection of purple hearts. But life rewarded the cunning, not the brave.</p>
<p>Zhanna opened her journal and flipped through it's pages, until she found the two envelopes enclosed inside. The handwriting was very different in both, one a well practiced script the other a scrawling hand that declared a more masculine touch.</p>
<p>"What do you have, Casmirovna?" Talbert asked, peering across the aisle at her prize. "Letters from your many admirers?"</p>
<p>"Just one from your mother, Talbert," Zhanna murmured. "She sends her love."</p>
<p>Popeye and Smokey roared at the sergeant's red face as he blustered, trying to word a response but he had lost all ability to speak in his anger. She smiled, flipping through the pages. There wasn't much to report. Easy was returning to England, as of the date of Sveta's last letter. It wasn't censored, as it was written in Russian. She was still careful with them, tucked gently into the journal whose pages were rapidly filling. That journal told more about Zhanna's military service than anyone in Easy company was privy to and she shuddered to think about misplacing it. The idea of a wandering eye to read it and know of every secret, every burden, sent shivers down her spine.</p>
<p>"Do you get letters from home, Lieutenant?" Smokey asked.</p>
<p>"No," Zhanna said. "I get correspondence from Lieutenant Samsonova and Lieutenant Compton but not from home."</p>
<p>"Of course, Compton," Tab said slyly. It was an attempt to jab her, in recompense for joking with his mother. Zhanna didn't particularly care to think about the men's assumptions of her alliance with Buck Compton. They could assume what they liked. They didn't know that in war, there was no friendship, just enemies and allies. They'd learn. The hard way, but they would learn.</p>
<p>"Samsonova and Compton keep me updated with Easy," Zhanna said simply. That was all that needed to be said. "They heard of your third purple heart and Compton sends his congratulations."</p>
<p>Smokey nodded, smiling sheepishly. He looked at Zhanna's pillowcase, bare of such decorations that graced his own.</p>
<p>"I'm sure you'll get one, Lieutenant," Popeye assured Zhanna. "What with losing your hearing and all."</p>
<p>"I'm not holding my breath," Zhanna said, softly. "Russians seem to be the last thing on the American army's mind. I'm not here for the rewards, I'm here to get home."</p>
<p>"How long have you been gone?"</p>
<p>"Three years," Zhanna said. "But I haven't seen my family for much longer."</p>
<p>The weight of it all finally sank in. Zhanna had recognized for several months the timeline. She hadn't seen her mother's face in six years. She hadn't heard her name on her father's lips in two thousand one hundred and ninety days. The minutes couldn't be counted nor could the emotions she felt. It was almost too much.</p>
<p>Her usual reassurances that they were alive, that she would see them again, and that their safe haven would be a reality seemed to fall on deaf ears. Zhanna leaned back against her pillows, the paper gripped tightly in her palms. Her eyes squeezed shut, she heard the rustling of bedsheets and the sudden weight of something on her pillow. Opening her eyes, Zhanna turned to see a little slip of purple ribbon. Wordlessly, she picked it up, spinning the metal heart between her fingertips. Funny, she thought. A tiny piece of metal for all that blood. That didn't seem like a fair payment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. ...if I can change...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>The exhaustion had hit Sveta like a ton of bricks when she had stepped onto English soil for the first time in a month. From there, hours of debriefs and meetings became her life as majors and colonels and even briefly a general joined them at the Division and then Regimental Headquarters. With each passing moment, Sveta wished for nothing but a shower and pillow. And not some crude tent with a showerhead, but a real bath of warm water.</p>
<p>She couldn't visit Zhanna that day. She decided to go soon though, perhaps in a few days. So as the officers droned on about successful missions, enemy casualty reports, and estimated missing and killed in action numbers for the Allied invasion, she just struggled to stay awake.</p>
<p>Harry and Compton split from them after dinner. But Sveta and Winters had yet another meeting. She blocked it out. She'd already told them about her part in the invasion. She'd already been assured a replacement Mosin-Nagant rifle at their earliest possible hour. So she just nodded along and added a few small contributions while Winters retold the Brass, again, of their assault on Brécourt Manor.</p>
<p>Sveta nearly cried when they dismissed her. She'd had only a little food and with the sun already almost gone, the Mess facilities were surely closed. Anger flared up in her, a burning sensation that made her fists tighten and jaw clench. As she stood at the foot of the steps of the HQ building, Sveta tried to calm down. She tried to breathe.</p>
<p>The squeaking of door hinges and footsteps made Sveta pause. She turned around to find Speirs wrestling a cigarette from his jacket as the door snapped shut. "Jesus Christ, they sure do love their own voices."</p>
<p>She smiled. "I've found most Americans think that way."</p>
<p>"The truth comes out at last." As Speirs took the five red-brick steps down, he lit his smoke and then took it out to look at her. He smirked. "I never would've guessed you hated us, Samsonova."</p>
<p>"Hah." Seeing him start to smirk around his cigarette made it impossible for her to stop her own. "Care to share?"</p>
<p>He held out his pack. "Rumor has it that you're up for promotion."</p>
<p>"Is that what you heard?" She looked at him in surprise. As the flame of her zippo lighter caught her cigarette, she smiled. "Well. That's been my goal in life, Speirs. Make Captain in the United States Army."</p>
<p>He let out another small laugh. "Yeah, well. Something to write home about."</p>
<p>The mask slipped at his words. She didn't write home, not when she could help it. She sent telegram reports to the Soviets every so often, part of being a liaison for them in the West. But Sveta didn't speak to her father unless he instigated. "Yes. I am sure the Red Army will be pleased."</p>
<p>"They should be. We're kicking the Krauts' asses out here," he reminded her.</p>
<p>Silence fell between them. Standing at the base of the stairs, watching as the clouds that had obscured the stars began to dissipate, Sveta focused on breathing. Their cigarette smoke blended together in the space around them. Aldbourne was peaceful. Too peaceful. Sveta longed for the war again. The war in Europe meant the war in her mind stayed silent.</p>
<p>"How's Lieutenant Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>She glanced left. Speirs had taken his cigarette from his mouth. He seemed to be inspecting her, looking for something but what, she didn't know. Sveta didn't like being in the dark. "I've not heard from her since we got back," she said. "Last report I received said she's making a full recovery."</p>
<p>"Good. We need soldiers like her."</p>
<p>"How so?"</p>
<p>He shrugged. "I heard about her actions at Carentan. Easy Company can't control rumors for shit. Even Dog Company's filled with stories of her shooting."</p>
<p>"It's true," Sveta agreed. "Zhanna is unmatched with a rifle."</p>
<p>She always had been. Zhanna had always had a drive that Sveta couldn't really understand. Her hands never left that rifle, her eyes never left her targets. But she didn't want to think about Zhanna. She didn't want to think about Russia, about home. When she thought about home her heart burned with pain and guilt and an aching loneliness.</p>
<p>But her feet wouldn't move. Sveta stayed rooted to the spot outside HQ, Speirs on her left and the shadow of a silent truck on her right. With her hair still pinned against her head, the breeze cooled her neck. "Where are Dog's officers billeted?"</p>
<p>"Right by Easy's," Speirs told her. He dropped his cigarette, smashing it with his foot to make sure the light went out. Then he glanced up at her. "You heading back?"</p>
<p>"I should." Sveta sighed and then looked at him. "I'm exhausted. Americans running their mouths all day will do that to me."</p>
<p>Speirs just shook his head. But Sveta could see the smile. She could see the laughter. She disposed of her own cigarette and then started down the road with Speirs.</p>
<p>"On the Samaria, what happened between you and Sergeant Guarnere?"</p>
<p>The question startled her. It came out of nowhere as they strolled past silent shops and pubs, winding their way through town in the dark. He didn't break eye contact. Sveta frowned. "We got into a disagreement."</p>
<p>"Your sergeants thought you were going to shoot him," Speirs corrected.</p>
<p>Sveta shrugged. "I thought about it."</p>
<p>"What'd he do?"</p>
<p>"He struck Casmirovna in the face," Sveta told him. She could feel the anger bubbling up, like tendrils of flames that wrapped around her chest and made her want to scream. She could remember the bruise on her face. "She and Sergeant Lipton have told me it was accidental. But the fact remains that he struck a superior officer."</p>
<p>Speirs didn't respond at first. They passed another street. It surprised her at first, how silent the town had become. But she supposed they all wanted sleep before partying their hearts out.</p>
<p>"You scared the shit out of him."</p>
<p>Sveta broke into a smile. She knew she had. Glancing over, she saw him watching her. "I know. That was the point." As they approached the street where the Connors lived, Sveta paused. She stood beneath a lamp post, trying to stay away from the shadows. "Fear is a weapon as much as any gun. But I think you know that."</p>
<p>"That so?"</p>
<p>Sveta looked at him in the lamp light. One side of his face more shadowed than the other, but with the same hazel eyes she had come to associate with him. He needed to shave; most of the men did now that they'd returned to England. But he held himself with an almost regal bearing. He knew how to act.</p>
<p>She just smiled, digging into her pocket. With a lazy twist of her wrist, she held out her pack of smokes. "Want a cigarette?" she mocked.</p>
<p>"Sure." He grabbed the whole pack. As she opened her mouth in protest, he just stuck it in his own pocket. "You can bill Casmirovna."</p>
<p>Sveta burst out laughing, shaking her head. In that moment, with Speirs beside her in the quiet street, Sveta was neither alone nor lonely. She was out a cigarette pack, though.</p>
<p>She had a friend. Sveta watched him as he held her gaze. Hazel eyes had always held more comfort than brown. Only when a noise in the house behind her interrupted them did Sveta tear herself away. Blonde hair flashed in the dark of a window as they both looked for who had disturbed them. But whoever it was had disappeared.</p>
<p>She sighed. Turning back, Sveta backed up a bit. Even in his face she could see the exhaustion they all felt, despite his best effort, probably. "Get some rest, Speirs."</p>
<p>"You too. Gotta keep scaring the Enlisted, Samsonova."</p>
<p>"Svetlana's fine."</p>
<p>She surprised herself as much, if not more, than him when she said it. But it was fine. He was a friend. Friends got to use her name. Speirs could use her name.</p>
<p>He nodded. "Call me Ron then. First names might really scare the men," he added. "Though for what it's worth, you don't scare me."</p>
<p>"Neither do you."</p>
<p>She offered him a last smile before turning away and heading up the last few meters to the Connors' house. The shadows didn't frighten her quite as much as she passed dark hedgerows and fences. Waiting beyond those shadows was a warm bath and bed. And she had a friend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. ...all I long for...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zhanna's stay in the hospital was longer than she would have liked. As the beds emptied around her, for transfer to the States or released back to duty, her only constant were the flowers that a nurse continued to supply her. She had learned how to press them from her mother, Agata having pasted the delicate, dried flowers to white paper and framed them in their home. Zhanna hadn't pressed a flower in years but as the bedside arrangement began to decay, she wanted to immortalize their beauty the only way she knew how.</p>
<p>She laid the daisies to rest between the pages of her journal, finding homes for them between her time in the Samsonov home and her journey to America. There, they waited for the weeks to take their toll. As they cured, safe between the paper, Zhanna's shoulder grew stronger and her fellow paratroopers, the only familiar faces in this hospital, left. Smokey and Talbert were discharged, Popeye was transferred to a different English hospital, and Blithe was wheeled away one day. No one knew his final destination nor his condition. For all they knew, Blithe was dead.</p>
<p>Zhanna should have been cleared to return to duty. She grew impatient, waiting on the formalities to be cleared up. There was some confusion, her being Russian, not American. The nurses weren't quite sure what to do with her or how to file her paperwork. The added confusion of her gender didn't make matters quicker. She was promised, "tomorrow," and then, "at the end of the week,". But it was wartime and with new patients arriving everyday, Zhanna wasn't sure if her time would ever come.</p>
<p>In that waiting period, where she had only her flowers and journal for company, Zhanna was surprised with a visit from Lieutenant Winters himself. He settled himself on a chair by her bedside, his hair neatly trimmed and combed back. The last time she had seen him had been in Normandy, some two or three weeks prior. He had pulled her back from the open field. His concern, etched into every feature of his face, had been burned into Zhanna's memory.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, glad to see you are recovering," Winters said. He sounded stiff. Come to think of it, Zhanna had never heard him sound entirely relaxed with anyone. At least not in her presence. He was always starched and proper, like the collar of his uniform, neatly folded and pressed.</p>
<p>"It's good to see you, Lieutenant," Zhanna murmured. She had been laying in the same bed for nearly two weeks. Her arm was wrapped in bandages and hung in a sling. Her hearing, though returning, was still buzzing in and out at the most inopportune times. She wasn't sure recovering was the word she would use. "I am feeling better."</p>
<p>"I'm sure you've been keeping busy," Winters said, looking around the ward and it's bland walls that Zhanna had spent hours staring at. There had been little to know entertainment in their paint but she kept looking, in the hopes that something, anything would strike her.</p>
<p>"I've tried." Zhanna said. There was only so much to be done, in a hospital ward with limited use of all limbs. She had tried her best.</p>
<p>Winters nodded to her journal. "I'm sure this has been a good time to catch up on your correspondence,"</p>
<p>Zhanna shrugged, wincing in pain, and cursing herself at the movement. She still hadn't fully healed. "I suppose. And you, do you keep up with your correspondence?"</p>
<p>"I try." Winters said.</p>
<p>"Who are you writing to?" Zhanna was shocked at her boldness, at her ease. She didn't think he would respond. He was stiff and upright, and so different from the glimpse of a man she had seen by that supply truck.</p>
<p>"Someone from back home." To her surprise, Winters had responded to her openness with his own honesty. "You?"</p>
<p>"Someone from back home." Zhanna had surprised herself by responding in kind. Something had changed, a new found understanding between them. They were now on the same level, they had seen the same things. When Winters had asked her if the men were ready before D-Day, there had been a gap between them but now, it seemed they had bridged that. "Do you write to her often?"</p>
<p>"No," Winters admitted, almost sheepishly. Zhanna had assumed it was a woman, a wife or a girlfriend. It could have been a sister but from his downcast eyes at her assumption, she was correct. Definitely not family. "Not as often as she does."</p>
<p>"I don't receive replies," Zhanna said. She wasn't sure what made her say it. It was the truth but it was too sharp, too raw to voice out loud. "Send her something in your next letter,"</p>
<p>"Any suggestions?" Winters asked, though his eyes were wide in surprise. He hadn't expected to be instructed on his private correspondence when coming to visit the hospital. Zhanna wasn't quite sure why he was here but he was a willing audience and Zhanna was a willing giver of advice.</p>
<p>Zhanna wordlessly opened her journal and found the bloom nestled next to the page dated August 15th 1942. She laid it in Winters's waiting palm and he looked at it for a few moments before tucking it into his innermost pocket, already holding something silver in it's khaki folds. She said. "Flowers are the way to a woman's heart."</p>
<p>"And what does a promotion lead to?" He asked.</p>
<p>Zhanna's brow furrowed, her stomach twisting at the sudden shift in subject. "I beg your pardon."</p>
<p>"As I'm sure Lieutenant Samsonova has informed you, I am now Easy's commanding officer," Winters said. She had.</p>
<p>"Congratulations," Zhanna said. "I'm sure you'll do wonderfully. Easy is lucky to have you."</p>
<p>Winters nodded, waving a hand to silence her compliment. His ears were pink at her words, not totally immune to the flattery. "Nixon is now a Captain, like myself. Colonel Sink wants to promote you, as well, Casmirovna," His tongue stumbled over her name, like most Americans did but he did it with confidence. Unabashed at his mistakes. "I have come to propose the change in rank from Second Lieutenant to First Lieutenant."</p>
<p>Zhanna was speechless. She couldn't be the same rank as Sveta. That was impossible. These Americans, even Sveta, couldn't understand the divide that they stood upon. Zhanna, no matter how close they were, would never be the same as Sveta. Not in power and not in title. So why pretend here, in the American military? It wouldn't matter when they got home. Sveta would be the Samsonov again and Zhanna would be the outcast. The roles they were born into. The lots in life that they were given. Zhanna had accepted it and it was time Winters did too.</p>
<p>"I can't do that," Zhanna said.</p>
<p>"What?" It was Winters's turn to be confused. "Sink finds your work in the invasion exemplary. He wants to reward you."</p>
<p>"I cannot be a First Lieutenant," Zhanna said. "I'm sorry Captain Winters, but it isn't meant to be."</p>
<p>"I see," he said, though he couldn't. No one ever could.</p>
<p>No one would understand the struggle for power that Zhanna had grappled with her whole life. Power wasn't just given to people like her. Power wasn't awarded for bravery or worthiness. Life gave power to those who already had it. Whose names and whose families knew what to do with it. Zhanna would never be one of those people and she had come to accept it.</p>
<p>"Second Lieutenant Casmirovna," Winters said. "We are promoting Lieutenant Samsonova as well, for her work on D-Day."</p>
<p>"She deserves it," Zhanna said. Sveta had worked hard, fought hard. She deserved to be appreciated for something other than her family name. Sveta had failed to mention this in her most recent letter, though.</p>
<p>"Would you reconsider your commission?" He asked. "Samsonova is being commissioned as a captain. If you are worried about your ranks clashing I can assure you-"</p>
<p>Even if Sveta was a captain. Even if they weren't the same rank. Zhanna couldn't take more power, her shoulders weren't worthy. This army didn't know who she was, truly. They already harbored suspicion for her adoptive country. If they knew she was a Pole and a Jew. Agata and Casimir, no matter the pride they felt for their home and their heritage, had taught her to hide it. This army and these men would never trust her for who she truly was. When she went back to Stalingrad, there would be no future for her but the one Zhanna had tossed to the side three years before; another tragedy lost to the NKVD.</p>
<p>"I'm not sure it would help," Zhanna said. "The commission, I mean."</p>
<p>"It is a well earned rank, Casmirovna," Winters said.</p>
<p>Zhanna knew that the rank wouldn't matter. Not in the long run. She would be going home and that safe place she imagined wouldn't have rank or title or the weight that power threw around. She had shed blood for a country that wasn't hers and while the little ribbon had shown the men's allegiance more than the officers' trust of her, Zhanna's hunger for recognition had been curbed. But Winters seemed insistant and if Sveta was a Captain, she would still keep that sacred divide in place. Perhaps it would help? Zhanna thought, for all her displeasure at first. Her parents would be proud. Casimir would be proud of the title his daughter would hold, no doubt drawing a connection from her success to Poland.</p>
<p>Maybe it wouldn't help once she returned to Russia but right now, deep down, something swelled with pride.</p>
<p>"Very well, Captain," she said. "I accept this promotion, at your insistence."</p>
<p>He nodded, his lips stretching to a small smile. "I'm glad you've reconsidered. Thank you for your time," Winters stood up. "And thank you for the suggestion. I shall draft up my reply tonight."</p>
<p>"Glad I could help," Zhanna murmured. She wasn't sure she was, truly. A part of her ached to see that little flower go.</p>
<p>"Can I help you in any way, Lieutenant Casmirovna?" He asked.</p>
<p>"Get me out of this hospital, Captain," Zhanna said desperately. She wasn't sure how much longer she could stay confined in these white walls, the smell of iodine and linen stuffing her nostrils. "If you want to help me, you have to get me out."</p>
<p>"I'll see what I can do," Winters promised. He stood, looking down at her on that hospital bed. Her blonde hair still had a stain of red from Blithe's blood that had pooled on the ground. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to stay more but he just patted the pocket where the dried flower lay and turned on his heel. His form disappeared down the aisle of the ward and Zhanna was alone again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. ...a piece of happy home...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sveta hadn't expected to be in England forever, but she certainly thought they'd have more than a couple of weeks to prepare for jumping back into Europe. Her hands clenched and then released as she turned from the table in Regimental HQ. Other men, mostly lieutenants of 1st Battalion, crowded the door. Even without knowing what they said, the grumbling tones told her enough. No one was happy.</p>
<p>"So much for a break," Harry muttered. "Shit."</p>
<p>As she moved into the hall, he came to stand next to her. Sveta watched as he fidgeted with a button on his dress uniform. She could see the fear in his body, in his abnormal movements. She couldn't blame him. "No rest for the weary, Harry."</p>
<p>"That goes without saying."</p>
<p>Surrounded by other officers just as weary as them, Sveta and Harry made their way into the sunlight. Her newly issued Captain's bars reflected the light. She smiled. As much as she joked with Ron about the promotion, it did feel nice. It felt like maybe they trusted her a bit more, and maybe she could trust them.</p>
<p>"Are you heading over to the Mess hall?" Harry asked her. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he turned to look at her. "I hear Gordon's planning a performance in honor of his return."</p>
<p>Sveta smiled. But she shook her head. "Not right away, I don't think."</p>
<p>He shrugged, then turned away. She watched as his back receded. Compton soon joined him, his gait recognizable even without the way his blond hair blinded onlookers in the sunlight. All around her, men trickled out. Mostly officers, but not all, Sveta watched them go from her spot against the red brick walls. She let herself relax with the stone to anchor her.</p>
<p>As she stood there, breathing, Sveta faded into the background. That skill had almost disappeared after August 1940. Before then, as a teenager, she'd gotten so good at hiding in plain sight that her mother had called her a ghost. There was power in being forgotten. Before Beria, Sveta had perfected that. She'd learned how to work in the shadows, how to watch and listen and imitate.</p>
<p>She'd almost forgotten what that felt like, working from the shadows.</p>
<p>Before long, the crowd of officers that had flooded out of HQ after the briefing had disappeared. Some were inside, like Nixon and Winters. Some had left to grab last minute drinks, as she didn't doubt Harry and Compton would do before long. But only she still stood outside. Her thoughts wandered to Ron. She wondered where he'd gone off to. They'd shared an exasperated expression across the conference room more than once during the briefing.</p>
<p>A pair of familiar voices pulled her attention away from her musings. She found the source not far away. A motorcycle and sidecar sat just at the end of the building. Newly promoted Sergeant Malarkey and Alton More stood chatting a bit louder than she imagined they knew. The beers each held made her roll her eyes, but she couldn't help her smile.</p>
<p>"Hey! The key's still in it."</p>
<p>"It's like they wanted us to borrow it, Don."</p>
<p>Sveta pushed herself off the bricks. She started over, not sure exactly what she was going to do. But the appearance of a glaring Staff Sergeant made up her mind for her. As they climbed onto the motorcycle, he started shouting.</p>
<p>"What's the matter, Sergeant," Sveta demanded. Hands on her hips, Sveta glared down at the man who stood no taller than Harry. Her gaze moved to the two Easy Company men behind him as the Sergeant spun around. "Is there a problem?"</p>
<p>"I've got it handled, ma'am."</p>
<p>Sveta let her arms fall from her sides. Cocking her head a bit to the side, Sveta narrowed her eyes. "Since when is it military protocol to address a superior officer without a salute, Sergeant? And I use that title loosely."</p>
<p>He snapped to attention. "No excuse, Captain."</p>
<p>She smiled, but not with her eyes. If she'd gotten good at anything over her years in Russia, it was knowing how to flash false smiles. "These two men are under my command, Sergeant. You will not interfere with them."</p>
<p>"But, ma'am."</p>
<p>"That's an order, Sergeant. Or do I need to remind you again that you're speaking to a Captain in the United States Army and the official 506th PIR liaison to the Red Army?"</p>
<p>He pursed his lips, but didn't object again. Sveta dismissed him. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, the Staff Sergeant hurried away still clutching the clipboard he'd hid behind. Sveta smirked as she watched him go. Too easy.</p>
<p>"Captain!"</p>
<p>Sveta turned back to Malarkey and More. The former had spoken, watching her with a grin and a nod. She just waved him off. "You're dismissed as well. Get out of here, Sergeants."</p>
<p>"Aye aye, Captain," Malarkey added.</p>
<p>More snorted out a laugh, shaking his head as he turned the key in the ignition. Sveta stepped back as the motorcycle sped off. The smell of gasoline lingered in the air. At the sound of a few voices, she turned around. Ron and the other two Dog Company Platoon Leaders came out of HQ with cigarettes hanging from their mouths and furrowed brows.</p>
<p>She retreated back towards the nearby wall. Watch from the shadows. Pull the strings. Being the one to pull the puppet strings again felt so good, like a drug. But she knew it couldn't last. No matter how much power she had here, it would disappear someday. That much she knew.</p>
<p>Ron caught sight of her. He nodded, and then his little group paused in their step. The other two laughed at something he said before carrying on. She stood a bit straighter as he made his way over.</p>
<p>"Surprised you're not out drinking with Welsh," he told her, "after the news we just got. Or are you excited to get back to the fight."</p>
<p>"Excited?" She scoffed. "No. I need another three weeks of sleep. Then I'll happily jump back into Europe."</p>
<p>He agreed with her. "We've just barely got back replacements for the men we lost in Normandy. The Brass are stupider than I expected to send us back so fast."</p>
<p>"I don't even get my replacement rifle until tomorrow."</p>
<p>He smirked. "Well, you shouldn't have lost it in the jump."</p>
<p>"I didn't know Americans had selective memory, though that would explain a lot about your disrespect," she said, "but I recall you being weaponless on D-Day too."</p>
<p>"My rifle isn't special issue."</p>
<p>Sveta shrugged. "I don't need a Russian one. The Mosin-Nagant is familiar, but not essential." She looked around. If Sveta was honest with herself, she wasn't sure she wanted to hold the reminder of home in her hands. She loved Russia with all her heart, but it brought only pain. Especially the further into the summer she got. "American weapons are effective."</p>
<p>"That may be the closest you've ever come to admitting that we can compete with you Ruskies." He turned to her. "Was it a compliment?"</p>
<p>Sveta tried not to smile. She really tried. But she could see Ron watching her and it made her chest burn, her heart beat a bit faster. Her words caught as she tried to refute the obvious bait.</p>
<p>She couldn't afford this.</p>
<p>She couldn't afford feelings, not for an American.</p>
<p>So she just took a deep breath through her nose and pretended to laugh. She moved a bit apart from him. She hoped it wouldn't be obvious. Her masks had been crumbling with each day that passed since August 1940, and even though she'd begun to repair them, to regain that skill of hiding behind posturing, Ron Speirs seemed to have a knack for tearing them down. Sveta shrugged. "We're allies Ron. I can't fight the Americans and the Krauts at the same time. Not if I want to win."</p>
<p>Before he could respond, Nixon and Winters came bounding down the steps. They looked as irritated as she'd felt in the meeting. Sveta pushed off the wall. Offering Ron a quick nod and smile, she hurried to join the other two.</p>
<p>"Are you two heading to the Mess Hall?" she asked.</p>
<p>They turned to her as they reached a jeep. With a quick nod, Nixon climbed into the passenger seat next to Winters. "Coming, Samsonova?"</p>
<p>"I hear Gordon's got a surprise planned." She wasted no time in getting into the second row of seats. Running her fingers through her long hair, she tried to get out the knots that seemed to just accumulate. "Wouldn't want to miss that," she deadpanned.</p>
<p>Winters gave a small laugh. With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life and he started the jeep down the road. The open air didn't help the tangles, so she pulled a rubber band out of her pocket and did her hair back in a long braid. She would worry about pinning in up later.</p>
<p>"Is Ron more stimulating conversation than the rest of us?" Nixon asked, turning around. The army jeeps didn't move very fast. The wind couldn't drown out his questions. "You two seem to get along well."</p>
<p>She bit her cheek. "He's certainly better company than you, but that's not hard to do."</p>
<p>At his side, Winters shook his head but Sveta could see the small smile he tried to hide. She turned back to Nixon in triumph. He just rolled his eyes and took a drink. With a wink, he screwed the lid back on his flask before flashing it in front of her. "Just for that, you don't get any alcohol."</p>
<p>"What makes you think I would want yours?"</p>
<p>He turned around to look her in the eyes. "You spent enough time digging through my stash in Normandy, I just assumed. Or are you really that obsessed with stealing? You might want to find a less illegal past time, Captain."</p>
<p>Sveta glared. But before she could form a response, Nixon spun back around in his seat.</p>
<p>"Alright, both of you knock it off," Winters ordered. "It's not productive to have you two fighting when we need to focus on jumping back into Europe."</p>
<p>Nixon shook his head. "I don't know, Dick. The plans don't sound very concrete. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't change it before long."</p>
<p>Sveta had to agree. She hadn't seen as much detail as Nixon and Winters who had stayed behind for a smaller, more thorough briefing. But the way the Brass had been talking, it had seemed less concrete than she would've expected from a full airborne jump. Especially after the intense preparation for D-Day.</p>
<p>"Well whatever happens, we need to proceed assuming we're jumping back into France." Winters turned to them as he parked the jeep near the massive building where Easy took their meals. He got out and pointed to the barn. "Let's break the news."</p>
<p>Sveta followed Nixon and Winters more slowly. They were always together, inseparable. She didn't have anyone like that. Not even Zhanna. She always fell into step behind, not beside, no matter what.</p>
<p>As she entered what basically amounted to a massive barn turned into a gathering hall, Sveta was hit by the smell of sweaty bodies and alcohol. She wrinkled her nose. Noise assaulted her too, laughter and dissonant voices all around. Sticking to the walls, Sveta tried to take in the scene.</p>
<p>Smokey Gordon, standing atop a long wooden table, gestured for the crowd to settle down. As their voices fell, he smiled. "As you weren't wounded by the enemy and thus didn't qualify for a Purple Heart, we've taken matters into our own hands." He unpinned a medal from his chest and held it out. "Tab, this is for you."</p>
<p>Sveta smiled as the men heckled him. She hadn't spoken to him since Normandy. But Spina's words always came back, that he'd been grateful to her for her help after being stabbed. It was true that morphine messed with the brain, but she chose to think it had been genuine.</p>
<p>Lipton stood up from a chair and moved to take the spotlight from Gordon. "Couple of announcements!"</p>
<p>He knew. Sveta could tell that Winters and Nixon had told him just based on the way his shoulders hunched. He tried to hide it, the depression. He couldn't.</p>
<p>"First, the training exercise scheduled for 2200 has been cancelled." A chorus of cheers and hollers rose from the men who had no idea what would be coming next. Lipton shushed them. "Secondly, all passes are hereby revoked. We're heading back to France. So pack up all your gear. We will not be returning to England, boys."</p>
<p>Hearing those words out loud made her stomach drop. As much as combat meant less stress over Beria and the possibility of spies, she had no desire to live in it forever. She didn't want to shut the door on England. Not yet. Not while she could still enjoy being away from the NKVD.</p>
<p>"Anyone who has not made out a will, go to the supply office. The trucks depart for Membury at 0700."</p>
<p>Death hung over them like a cloud. The men quieted, muttering curses as they finished their beers. Sveta felt a bit sick. They'd only had about a week. Only a week to rest and recuperate.</p>
<p>She felt safe here. England had started to really feel safe. Safer than a warzone, at least. And suddenly, she didn't want to leave.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. ...look through the curtains...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>True to his word, Winters did his best, which seemed to be enough. Zhanna was discharged the following day. Her return to Easy was a joyous one, if not overdue. She had attempted to find Winters after she had been released, to thank him for his help but he was nowhere to be found. And while she would have liked to hunt him down, Buck, Skip, and Malarkey seemed keen to make up for lost time and Zhanna didn't have a chance.</p>
<p>Skip and Malarkey took her to the pub on her first night back, determined to recreate their first trip together. Before Normandy. "The good old days," as Skip called it. She was more careful this time, never reaching the point of inebriation that she had that first night. They were a little disappointed that the giggling Zhanna didn't make an appearance but Skip just seemed happy to have her back.</p>
<p>Buck had kept her rifle in his possession, refusing to return it to Sveta for safe keeping. He insisted on returning it to Zhanna herself. When she finally ran her hands over the smooth wood, she found it freshly cleaned. While Buck's hands, much larger than her own, had struggled with the finer cleaning Zhanna usually gave the gun, the gesture still touched her. Sveta seemed to have enjoyed a wild adventure while Zhanna was in the hospital. The men of Easy Company were thrilled to retell the motorcycle thieving that had taken place and Malarkey was seen zooming across camp in the vehicle on more than one occasion. He offered to take Zhanna in the sidecar but she didn't seek the adrenaline thrill quite like he did and graciously declined.</p>
<p>While Zhanna may have left the hospital behind, her injury hadn't loosened its grip on her. Her left arm remained weakened, trembling when lifting even the lightest loads. Zhanna's rifle was a struggle to lift to the shoulder, let alone holding it steady. She knew that she would have to strengthen the muscles to bring back the peak condition that had been lost.</p>
<p>Buck had joined her for several physical training sessions, assisting her in hand to hand combat in the attempt to rebuild the muscle. While he was easily double her height and weight, Zhanna refused to give in. Soon it became a comical spectator event among the enlisted to watch Lieutenant Casmirovna and Lieutenant Compton sparring in that sand box. Skip joked that they should have sold tickets.</p>
<p>Though small, Zhanna had learned hand to hand combat in Sniper training as well as a refresher course in her time with the Airborne. She was no stranger to throwing a punch and her opponents were usually larger than her. Buck was at first hesitant.</p>
<p>"Don't go easy on me," she had warned.</p>
<p>"I won't," he had said. Within a few heartbeats, he was flat on his back, gasping for air.</p>
<p>He quickly learned his lesson and while Buck could never be accused of going easy on her, he wasn't trying his hardest. Zhanna quickly gained confidence and regained some of her strength and the enlisted began to rise to the challenge. She took down Skip, Tab, and Christenson before the others admitted that the odds weren't in their favor. Bull Randleman refused to take part but liked to watch the show, a loyal spectator with his cigar. Captain Winters would wander by the training ground, on occasion and before Zhanna could thank him for freeing her from the prison of the hospital, the enlisted would start egging him to join.</p>
<p>"I heard he cracked a paratrooper's back before D-Day," someone would hiss.</p>
<p>"I bet he couldn't take down Short Stuff over here," another would whisper.</p>
<p>But Winters would never accept the challenge and Zhanna would never be able to thank him.</p>
<p>Once the few brave men who had challenged Zhanna that day had been thrown into the dirt mercilessly, they would march as a company into town and occupy a pub for the next several hours. It was a time-honored tradition of drinks and shouting songs, with the occasional loss of money and dignity to a fellow paratrooper.</p>
<p>Zhanna's friendship with the men of Easy had grown more comfortable since their return from Normandy. While Sveta seemed content to return to their billet at the Connors, Zhanna didn't want to be trapped inside those walls, surrounded by the lacy curtains and things that her family would never be able to have. Sveta would return to the billet after a long day of training while Zhanna would go with the enlisted to the pub.</p>
<p>Zhanna's comfort around the men was obviously an annoyance to Sveta, that she hadn't earned their trust. Being a Samsonov gave power but it didn't always lend trust. Zhanna could have felt sorry for her. She could have invited Sveta along, insisting that they go together to the pub where the vodka and spirits would take the edge off their pain. But Zhanna hadn't always had something Sveta didn't and there was something inside of her, the little piece that coveted the purple heart and the promotion, that did not want to share it.</p>
<p>Here, with Zhanna, Muck and Malarkey laughed easily. They bought round after round of drinks, roaring with laughter at Buck's monopoly on the dartboard. While Zhanna proved formidable in hand to hand combat, no one could beat Buck Compton at darts. Muck was sure that Zhanna could, if she tried, but she didn't want to take away this small victory from her friend. Not when he had done so much for her. He managed to keep Nixon at bay, who had been watching her since her discharge from the hospital. Whether or not he had pieced more of her story together, Zhanna didn't know but she didn't want to risk it.</p>
<p>The pub was always loud but on a particularly hot night in August, the sound was nearly deafening and Zhanna knew what that was like. There was barely any room to move, men rubbing elbows and bumping shoulders to push their way to the bar. She had sent Malarkey to fetch her one last drink before heading back to the billet. Muck sat beside her at a rickety table that wobbled more than the planes they had flown over Normandy, watching Buck destroy yet another enlisted at darts. He did it so mercilessly, without any shame or remorse. Zhanna would have felt sorry for his latest victim, if it hadn't been Talbert.</p>
<p>They had overcome the differences that had split them in Ft. Benning but Zhanna still liked to see him humbled every once in a while. Buck was willing to do just that.</p>
<p>Muck groaned in sympathy as Buck loosed his final dart, landing firmly in the red circle. A bullseye and defeat for Tab once again.</p>
<p>"That's alright," Zhanna soothed, pulling a chair up beside her and motioning for the gallant loser to take a seat. "I'll buy you a drink."</p>
<p>"You mean, I'll buy him a drink," Muck said. Zhanna hadn't paid for a single drink since her feet touched British soil and while it hadn't been intentional, she didn't want to break her streak.</p>
<p>"Of course, of course," Zhanna said, pulling off her jacket to try and cool off. It was to no avail, sweat had dripped down her back in rivers, her blue dress sticking tightly to her skin.</p>
<p>"Nice dress, Lieutenant," Tab muttered.</p>
<p>Zhanna flushed, though it might have been the heat in the room. She wasn't comfortable in this blue cotton dress but she had convinced herself not to wear her uniform to the pub. This was something Zhanna would have worn in Stalingrad, before the callouses had scuffed her hands and her hair was shorn to her jawline.</p>
<p>"Is that anyway to speak to your superior officer, Talbert?" Buck's tone was stern as he pulled up his own chair, face still flushed with victory. Tab froze, unsure if Buck was being genuine in his rebuke. It wasn't until he clapped the sergeant on the back and laughed that Talbert relaxed.</p>
<p>Zhanna murmured her thanks to Malarkey as he placed a tumbler of vodka before her. She looked down at the glass and the clear liquid, staring into its contents for a moment. The hair at the back of her neck was damp, sweat perspiring on her forehead. Zhanna hadn't been used to these hotter summers, though nothing compared to America in the spring and summer. At least Britain had better vodka than America, she mused, taking a sip and letting it wash down her throat, scorching as it went.</p>
<p>She had taken a liking to a particular brand that the Samsonovs had kept in their liquor cabinet, and that no pub or bar seemed to carry. This was a decent substitute, she decided. Though nothing could beat the bottle on that second shelf, unlocked by a stolen key and drank in the darkness of the evening when Veronika and Sveta had gone to bed but Zhanna couldn't sleep, for fear of eyes blinking into view in the shadows.</p>
<p>"Why haven't we heard your special code recently, Lieutenant?" Muck asked.</p>
<p>Zhanna's blood ran cold, like the winters in Stalingrad. Fierce winds could cut through any layers and your flesh with the ferocity of a knife. She shivered and wanted to shake her head at Muck, make him stop. But he kept going, fueled by Buck's confusion.</p>
<p>"Special code?" His brow furrowed. Zhanna had never mentioned the incident to him.</p>
<p>"First time we took her to a bar, she came out drunk and babbling in some language." Muck continued, louder than was necessary but the glass in his hand was empty and his humor was high. "Penkala calls it her special code."</p>
<p>"Samsonova didn't seem to know what it was, right?" Talbert continued. "So what was it then, Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, Cas," Muck said. "You never said."</p>
<p>Zhanna's mouth was dry and she didn't think she could feel her fingers anymore, wrapped as tightly as they were around the glass of vodka. Vodka that didn't seem to sit well in her stomach anymore. She had thought she was safe with the men, that it had been forgotten. They had seemed to prefer talking about her sniper prowess or the way she could use a man's body weight against him despite her height. Zhanna had thought it was safe but in this moment, a wave had sloshed over her, catching her by surprise. She was choking on water, dragged down by the current.</p>
<p>"My parents always spoke it," Zhanna said softly. Her mind was reeling, scrambling for something plausible but still safe. She just hoped her fear wasn't showing on her face. "I don't expect Lieutenant Samsonova to know it. Her people wouldn't speak it."</p>
<p>Buck's eyes watched her carefully. He looked as if he wanted to ask a question but didn't. Blessedly, he didn't and Muck seemed satisfied with the answer.</p>
<p>"You and Samsonova," Talbert started to say. "How the hell did you two meet?"</p>
<p>Both peering around the women who had arranged the deal. Kindness had felt like an insult but this girl, not much older than Zhanna, had seemed welcoming. Her brown hair had been in braids and Veronika had introduced her as Svetlana. Maria had called Zhanna, "Zhannochka," And it was from then that she was known as only Casmirovna. That's how they had met. But Zhanna couldn't tell them that.</p>
<p>"I came to live with her family when I was fourteen."</p>
<p>Buck nodded. He knew that. She had told him her story, just brushing the surface. She knew almost everything about him, information he freely gave but Zhanna couldn't do that. Zhanna couldn't burden others with the weight of her full story. Maria had passed her over to the Samsonovs for less.</p>
<p>"You've known her for…" Muck trailed off, realizing that her age had never been disclosed.</p>
<p>"Five years," Zhanna said. "We joined the Russian army together. We fought together. And now we are in the Airborne together."</p>
<p>Muck opened his mouth as if he wanted to ask for more information, to continue this story but Easy company didn't need to know her secrets. They didn't need to know that she was Polish, Jewish, or anything else for that matter. She had hidden who she was for so long, and no matter what her father had encouraged, Zhanna couldn't be proud enough to share it now. These men, she trusted them with her life but not with her secrets.</p>
<p>Gathering her courage firmly in place, Zhanna said, hand still tight against the glass. "I appreciate your curiosity but I am a private person,"</p>
<p>Talbert opened his mouth but Zhanna raised a hand to silence him. "Now tell us, Talbert, how is your mother?"</p>
<p>While Muck laughed and Talbert's ears grew redder still, Zhanna took a sip of the vodka that had gone warm in the heat of her hand. Buck leaned close to her, about to whisper a question in her ear but she turned at the last moment, meeting him head on.</p>
<p>Their faces were a breath away from each other. His eyes were so blue, nothing like the dark eyes she had been warned about, and he smelled like beer and cigarette smoke. He wanted to know her secrets, the look in his eyes told her so.</p>
<p>"I'm a private person," she repeated in the barest whisper. "Even to you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. ...no sorrow down in the ground...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>21 August 1944</strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>On most days, Sveta could tolerate the jubilation that echoed off the walls of the English pubs. Some days she even enjoyed it. The camaraderie brought a smile to her face as she sat on the edge. Yes, it stung, not being invited to join in. But at least Zhanna found comfort in their laughs. She could enjoy herself. And most days, that sufficed.</p>
<p>But the 21st of August was not most days. Even amidst the beautiful clear summer of Aldbourne, a dark cloud shadowed her every move. Sveta's movements slowed, her thoughts scattered. The 21st of August hurt more than any bullet wound, sharpened word, or sarcastic laugh ever could.</p>
<p>Three dates had been branded into her heart. 16 April 1935, the day her life changed the first time, haunted her memories. That was the day her exuberance had died. That was the day she went from laughing to watching. The day she learned to dutifully kiss her father and gently smile at his friends. 16 April 1935 turned her into an expert at posturing and pretenses.</p>
<p>But 21 August 1940 turned her from a master at decoding manipulation to a young woman who felt only the burn of anger and bitterness. The Korovin pistol, small and unobtrusive, had stolen her mother. The silence had left Veronika Samsonova splayed out across a mattress that hadn't taken long to stain red.</p>
<p>She tried to force down the searing ache in her chest as Sveta walked up the last few paces from the road to the Connors' house. She'd had a last minute meeting with Sink, Strayer, and Nixon regarding operations on the Eastern Front. To her annoyance, some blonde woman had tried to get in her way when she'd left. She didn't have time to speak to war correspondents. Not now. Not on the anniversary of her mother's death.</p>
<p>When she opened the door, Sveta heard Mrs. Connors chatting with her friend Amelia Baker. A decade younger than Mrs. Connors, Mrs. Baker enjoyed popping over for tea on a semi-frequent basis. Sveta didn't particularly like her. Thought she was too talkative.</p>
<p>So Sveta decided she'd avoid the kitchen. Her stomach growled, but Sveta couldn't bear the thought of putting food in her body. The pain of an empty stomach paled in comparison to the agony of thinking about the day her mother died.</p>
<p>"Svetlana is that you, dear?"</p>
<p>Sveta groaned. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she counted backwards from ten. Then she moved down the hall. "Yes."</p>
<p>"Amelia and I are popping out! Could you do me a favor?" Her smile widened as Sveta entered the room. Standing up from the table, she tapped her friend on the shoulder.</p>
<p>With a deep breath, Sveta nodded. "What did you need?"</p>
<p>"We got some flowers from the Army. A lovely young lady said they were a thank you to Robert for all his help in their training." As she pushed past Sveta, Mrs. Connors pointed behind herself. "Could you put them in water? The vase is on the counter."</p>
<p>Such a simple domestic request nearly made Sveta smile. She nodded, and assured Mrs. Connors she would get it done. As the front door shut behind her and Mrs. Baker, Sveta stood in the silence. She could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock near the front door, the occasional drip of water from the faucet. Zhanna had gone out with Compton to the pub. She stood alone. She stood in silence.</p>
<p>Sveta sighed. Turning back into the kitchen, Sveta forced herself to breathe through the heaviness on her chest. No amount of hatred, no amount of suffering would bring her mother back. Sveta found the vase with ease. And next to it—</p>
<p>Roses.</p>
<p>Red roses.</p>
<p>Sveta couldn't breathe. Her mouth dried, her fists clenched. Roses. She tried to grab the counter to steady herself. Trembling fingers hit the vase. It shattered on the ground.</p>
<p>18 February 1938.</p>
<p>The third date.</p>
<p>The day Beria had come into her life. The day she'd gone from quiet rebel to broken marionette. 18 February 1938, the date branded across her soul as the day she'd been forced to forget dreams of rebelling in favor of survival.</p>
<p>Sveta stumbled back. The porcelain crunched beneath her feet. She needed to get out. Sveta needed out. Leaving the remains of the vase on the kitchen floor and the roses splayed out across the counter, Sveta fled the house with only her fear and three bottles of vodka.</p>
<p>The sky mocked her, the sunset's reds and golds reminiscent of her glorious homeland. 21 August 1940 it had rained, poured against the sides of their mansion until all Sveta could hear as she composed a letter to Lana Stalina was the rain. She remembered the candles; Sveta had always preferred the little flames to artificial lamps. The winds had howled outside. The footsteps of the maids had faded.</p>
<p>Sveta settled herself in the grass of the field just outside Aldbourne. Her mind filled with the sounds of that night as tears streamed down her face. The first bottle of vodka, already a quarter gone, sloshed in her hand as she pulled her knees to her chest. The fading light cast shadows around her.</p>
<p>The shadows in the Samsonov estate had been cut by lightning that night. She could hear it. The crashing of thunder, the sheets of rain. She could hear it again. All over again, as if she was once more in 1940 with the flickering candles and the pristine paper on her antique desk. Content in the silence and solitude, the absence of her mother and Zhanna, left alone to her thoughts in a room where no one lurked.</p>
<p>Then came the crack of the bullet, a sound Sveta knew too well. In that moment, she'd heard the screams of the women in Rostov-on-Don, the shrieks of the children as they were ripped from their mothers' arms. She'd frozen, glued to her chair. It had taken mere moments for her to understand that sound.</p>
<p>Sveta choked out a sob. Burying her face in her arm, anger tore through her body. Fury at love, at life. Fury at Beria and Stalin and her father. Fury at her mother.</p>
<p>She couldn't remember how she got to her mother's door so fast. She remembered the dread, the panic filling her body as she opened the door. She remembered the screams.</p>
<p>Her screams.</p>
<p>Her sobs.</p>
<p>She remembered the blood, the fallen pistol on the floor, the unseeing hazel eyes. She remembered the way her mother wouldn't wake up even as her throat ached from screaming. She remembered the way Veronika's body drained of heat.</p>
<p>Sveta's would never drain of heat. She downed another long drink of the alcohol. Even vodka couldn't numb her. Too much anger, too much regret. Too much fire that threatened to consume her.</p>
<p>It had almost consumed her already. By the time Alexander Samsonov had returned from Moscow, Sveta's carefully crafted mask had started to crumble. She couldn't hide the disgust. She couldn't hide the hate. The small, dutiful kisses made her sick. The gentle smiles and curated laughter left her burning.</p>
<p>So she'd left. Another drink, and over half the bottle had consumed her. Sveta felt her sluggish movements as she tried to lie down. She looked up at the gold and red sky through heavy eyelids. She'd left.</p>
<p>She'd traded the politics of Leningrad, Moscow, and Stalingrad for the Red Army. She'd used her connections to get as far from the shadowy grasp of Beria as she could. To get away from the blood, the roses, the ghosts in her house.</p>
<p>One more drink.</p>
<p>She'd traded in her pen and ink for a sniper rifle. Her dresses became a uniform. Fur hats for a pilotka. Hate for Stalin became hate for the Nazis.</p>
<p>Just one more drink.</p>
<p>Sveta let it fill her body. Vodka brought more comfort than Zhanna or a sniper rifle. It drowned out the voices and screams. It drowned out the hate. Except for the hate she held for herself, the crying girl with the dark eyes of Alexander and the chilling fear of Veronika.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. ...a glass half empty...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zhanna spent more time at the bar with Buck and Skip's good company than she did at her billet. While she had once been a homebody, she now embraced the louder atmosphere and thrived in the smoky interior of the pub. The men had taken to spending more and more time there, a familiar feeling in the air now. The changing of winds, as they had felt before D-Day, was now hanging over them like a fog. But Easy Company didn't let the feeling hold them back from thoroughly enjoying their stint in Aldbourne.</p>
<p>Drinks were plentiful, smokes were passed around, and there were several overzealous men who didn't recognize Zhanna and assumed she was a local girl. Now the men who were not in Easy company gave her a wide berth, all very much aware of the blonde female lieutenant with the mean right hook. There were a few among Easy who were still learning the ropes. Easy didn't gawk and stare at Zhanna and Sveta anymore but now, wandering around camp, there were newcomers who didn't know the drill.</p>
<p>Her injury, now healing nicely, hadn't inhibited her throwing arm either. She was quite happy to take part in Buck's dart campaign. As an observer only, upon her insistence. Her aim, like with a rifle, wasn't fair to the men. She had beaten Buck once and he still lived in shame. Zhanna didn't want to destroy another's ego.</p>
<p>"Alright now Lieutenant, nice and easy," Luz, who had learned to curb his harsh sense of humor around Zhanna, was taking her place as Buck's second. "We've still got a shot."</p>
<p>Buck knew what he was doing. And while it didn't look like he did, his aim veering off to the side at the last moment, Zhanna had to hide her smile in the glass of vodka.</p>
<p>"You having a tough night?" Luz asked, taking a long drag off his cigarette, one from the pack Zhanna had received from Speirs. She hadn't told the enlisted it was the same pack, as they were too spooked at the Dog company officer, but they were willing to take a cigarette when offered. "It's alright, people have tough nights."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, George," Buck said.</p>
<p>"It's all right," Luz reassured as their opponents, Toye and a new man, Heffron, readied for their shot.</p>
<p>Zhanna admired Buck's way of easing himself among the men. They were so relaxed around him, like he wasn't an officer. They joked and laughed. After nearly a year of being treated with rigid offensive, the men were relaxing around Zhanna too. They joked and laughed and treated her like Buck. Liked but still respected. It warmed her more than the vodka ever could.</p>
<p>"You're embarrassing the lieutenant, here." Guarnere clapped Heffron, a fellow Philadelphian, on the back when his well aimed shot landed on its mark.</p>
<p>Zhanna clapped encouragingly, from her place beside Martin and Randleman. They were good NCOs, good men, and Zhanna didn't mind their presence. So she stood, drink in hand, watching the dart game before her. Sveta hadn't joined them tonight, or she would have had a fellow Russian, a familiar face beside her. The pub was so full of new men, new faces that Zhanna still felt on edge.</p>
<p>Maybe it was the sudden respect she had earned? Maybe it was the way the men looked at her, not with disgust now, but with an awe and fear that isolated her more?</p>
<p>Her mind was too full of thoughts like that to enjoy her vodka. Zhanna scolded herself and took a strengthening sip. It relaxed the tension in her shoulders and allowed her eyes to rest on the dart game that was still playing out before her, the stakes had risen considerably.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant?" Luz said. "Are you gonna shoot lefty all night?"</p>
<p>Zhanna smirked. Buck was right-handed. Anyone should know that but Heffron and Toye hadn't, leaving them bamboozled by the trick Buck had pulled.</p>
<p>Smiling at the good joke, Buck switched hands. "Luz, what would I do without George Luz?"</p>
<p>Amid protests from Toye and chuckles from Luz, the dart sailed straight onto target, with the aim that Buck had always had in him.</p>
<p>"Two packs, gentleman, hand them to the fine lady over there," Buck said, pointing to where Zhanna stood.</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, her pockets already full of Buck's earnings but set her drink down, holding her hands out for more bounty. Her attention was drawn not to the packs of cigarettes being laid in her palms, but the dispute that had broken out between Cobb and a handful of replacements. Cobb was argumentative at best and had picked at the newcomers, this time for wearing a unit citation on their uniforms. One that Zhanna wore too, pinned to her jacket.</p>
<p>"Ease up Cobb," McClung reached over and tapped the aggressor on the arm. "Everyone has one. They even gave them to the Russians."</p>
<p>Zhanna's hands closed tightly around the cigarette packs, the words stinging. She looked down at her brown shoes that were not military regulation, Russian-made leather. It shouldn't have hurt. She wasn't a real member of the unit but the promotion and the connections had made her feel good. Buck's alliance had made her feel a part of something.</p>
<p>Thanking the gallant losers, she wandered over to where Malarkey and Muck sat, settling down with her drink and the new prizes. They didn't say anything to her and she didn't speak to them, but the subtle nod that Skip gave her was enough. Zhanna wasn't a real member of the unit but he would treat her like one.</p>
<p>She picked at the callouses on her palms, suddenly not having as much fun as she would have any other night. Something felt off tonight. It wasn't Sveta's absence, she rarely accompanied Zhanna and Zhanna had stopped asking. She had started avoiding the Conner's home all together.</p>
<p>"Hey y'all, listen up!" Smokey Gordon, her old hospital buddy, now healed and beaming, wrestled Lipton front and center. "I've got an announcement to make. This here is Carwood Lipton. "</p>
<p>"He's already married, Smokey," Malarkey called, just to get a laugh.</p>
<p>"This is Carwood Lipton, the new Easy Company first sergeant!"</p>
<p>Zhanna liked Lipton, so she managed a smile, clapping quietly among the loud cheers and whoops. He was a popular choice. Promotions were being handed out to fill the gaps left by D-Day, but this was a deserved move.</p>
<p>"As befitting this position," Smokey continued, still teetering on a barstool, "he says he has to make an announcement,"</p>
<p>Lipton stepped forward, the grave look on his face lowering the temperature of the pub and the noise fell to silence, breathlessly waiting for him to speak. ""Well, hate to break the mood here, boys, but we're moving out."</p>
<p>The changing in the wind. The feeling they had all been aware of. They had been right. Zhanna drained the last of her drink, trying to steel her nerves. Lipton left, quietly and quickly, leaving a hush over the bar. She broke it with the clatter of her glass on the wood of the table. Startled, the men were forced to come to grips with the idea. The news had left them all, not shaken, but sombered. D-Day, all it's losses and pain, was still fresh in their minds.</p>
<p>The glass was empty and Zhanna's mind wasn't. Zhanna had avoided the Connors home long enough. She should be heading back. Back to her shared room with Sveta, with the quilt over her bed and the pressed flowers she had arranged on the window sill. To share the news to her friend, who might have already known.</p>
<p>Buck, catching a glimpse of her ashen face from across the pub, raised his eyebrows. Zhanna nodded. He pushed his way to her through the crowd.</p>
<p>"See you boys later," he said, to Malarkey and Muck.</p>
<p>"Good night, Casmirovna," Muck said, lifting his glass to her as they departed, Buck clearing the path and Zhanna following in his shadow.</p>
<p>The men of Easy had said that they were inseparable, calling Zhanna "Compton's shadow" behind her back. They never said it to her face, and while Buck bristled at the mention, Zhanna didn't mind. She had been called worse and she wasn't sure that this was an insult. It was a fact.</p>
<p>Buck had become her new shadow, now that Sveta had begun to walk a different path. She still loved her friend, and trusted her spotter but Zhanna had to think strategically. Like a piece on the chessboard that she was. Compton was well-liked, well-respected. Nixon didn't like Buck. It was the safest ally she had and they got along well.</p>
<p>Zhanna's shoes scuffed against the cobblestones as they followed the familiar streets of Aldbourne to her billet. Compton was housed not far away, and they would always end their night of drinking in the pub with a quiet walk to their respective homes. But tonight felt different.</p>
<p>"As much as I like being back in Aldbourne," Zhanna said, softly, breaking the companionable silence.</p>
<p>"You want to be back out on the field," Buck finished. "I get it."</p>
<p>He didn't, really. He was something without that uniform. He still had a family, had friends. Zhanna had to keep serving, keep being better, so that she wasn't left behind in the dust, in the care of another's kindness.</p>
<p>"Do you know where we are dropping next?" She asked. He was better acquainted to the officers than she was.</p>
<p>"Nixon is brewing something," Buck admitted. "But Dick won't tell us or doesn't know."</p>
<p>"Another jump?" Zhanna asked.</p>
<p>"Most likely," He said. "Wouldn't be until September,"</p>
<p>They were firmly planted in August, the 21st day having just set its sun. September seemed like a lifetime away and Zhanna didn't know if she could wait that long. This was the first August she had spent in good company, Zhanna realized. Prior experiences with Augusts hadn't been enjoyable. She had drunk to the point of numbness, dulling her sense more than ice ever could. Her mind though of sore legs and gasping breaths, running up and away. Pretending that she hadn't seen what she did.</p>
<p>Buck waved goodnight as Zhanna unlatched the garden gate, her shoes clicking against the slate pavers. These shoes, far more feminine than the American made boots were Russian crafted, hand me downs from Sveta. Their heels had made delightful noises against the wood floors of the Samsonov home and Zhanna could remember stepping more deliberately, when she was alone. To make a sound or a mark that would have gotten her unwanted attention anywhere else. But she had been Veronika's quiet rebellion so she could tap as loudly as she wanted to.</p>
<p>Zhanna opened the front door to a quiet house, a deep inhale of breath caught in her chest. There were no lights on upstairs, in the landing or in the window of Zhanna and Sveta's bedroom. Sveta would always wait up for her. Sveta always kept a light on for her.</p>
<p>She entered the house, tentatively. She didn't make a sound, her heels never touching the wood floors. Slowly, she ascended the stairs. Something was wrong. The Connors were asleep, soft murmurs of quiet slumber coming from their closed bedroom door. But Zhanna didn't hear anything from the closed door of her bedroom. Something was wrong. Sveta always kept a light on for her. Sveta always waited up for her. Why was today any different?</p>
<p>Zhanna's heels clunked on the floor, shattering the peaceful silence. August 21st. She froze outside the door of their room, like she was fifteen years old again.</p>
<p>There had been a gunshot as Zhanna passed the doorway. Wrong place at the wrong time. Zhanna had studied the door for a heartbeat, after silence consumed the hole left by the gunshot. She knew something was wrong. She watched her hand reach for the doorknob. And she had run away. She always ran away. Zhanna had waited. She had found Sveta after her friend had been the first one in the room when it should have been Zhanna. Zhanna should have gone in.</p>
<p>"You should go inside," she muttered, her gaze drilling through the door. Willing Sveta to open the door so she wouldn't have to.</p>
<p>She could run. That's what she did. Zhanna ran away so well. The burning in her legs as her muscles stretched was a familiar sensation. Zhanna was made to run, taught to run. She should run. The door knob was cold under her fingertips but she wrenched it open. No blood on the sheets. No abandoned handgun. Just the wood floor.</p>
<p>Zhanna could have sighed in relief but the air caught in her throat. It refused to escape. A quick scan of the bedroom found it to be empty. No blood on the sheets, no bullet casing, no slump form of quiet rebellion or shameful kindness. Nothing.</p>
<p>If Sveta wasn't here, where was she?</p>
<p>She had mentioned a field, just outside of Aldbourne. Quiet, secluded. Where she could be alone and at peace.</p>
<p>Zhanna thundered down the stairs, not giving a care to the noise her shoes made or the crash of the door behind her. Her feet pounded against the cobblestones, praying that her friend wouldn't have done the unthinkable. The town was dying down, officers hobbling back to their billets after the night in the pub. Her own consumption of vodka sloshed in her stomach, her head already feeling light.</p>
<p>She ran, between drunk soldiers and the shadows of the streets, ignoring any shouts of confusion or catcallers. Zhanna didn't care what the men thought, she just didn't want her own mind to be right. Blood, on grass not snow-white sheets. Another terrible kindness left unpaid because Zhanna couldn't open a damn door.</p>
<p>The grass was already cleared, a path wandering out to the center of the field that Zhanna followed carefully, looking everywhere in that dark corner of the night, for a figure, a sign of movement. Anything.</p>
<p>Gówno. Gówno. The only words of her secret code, her mother tongue that were coming to mind were the choicest swear words that her father had reserved for under the breath utterance. But Zhanna didn't bother to be quiet. With a full chest of desperate air, she spat. "Gówno!" As she stumbled into a little nest, where curled an immobile figure. Braids askew, bottle abandoned, it's contents drunk or spilled over the grass.</p>
<p>Rolling Sveta over, Zhanna checked for a heartbeat, for breathing. Anything. Everything. Her own fingers were trembling around Sveta's cold wrists. A thin, shallow pulse, beat against her fingertips.</p>
<p>She needed to be looked after, medical attention, more than what Zhanna could hope to provide. If Sveta stayed in this field, that shallow pulse lapping against the shore, would grow stagnant and Zhanna would be to blame for another death. Another door closed forever. Damn it.</p>
<p>She couldn't lift her. Sveta was too tall and her dead weight too much for Zhanna's own trembling legs. She couldn't lift her but she couldn't leave her.</p>
<p>Who would help her? Who could she trust to not slander the Samsonov name?</p>
<p>Buck Compton. The name finally released the air she had held in her lungs, straining against her throat. Buck would help her.</p>
<p>She didn't want to leave her, the waves of her pulse dull. So very dull. She was pale, like a porcelain doll. But she would be dead if Zhanna didn't go, and there would be nothing that she could do then. No one she could repay.</p>
<p>"We have to get you home," Zhanna murmured, squeezing Sveta's hand in her own trembling one. "I'll be back."</p>
<p>Zhanna had never run so hard in her life, a panicked dash back through the streets of Aldbourne, all the while her mind racing. If Sveta died, Zhanna would be sent back to Russia. If Sveta died and Zhanna was sent back to Russia, she would have no protection. If Sveta died and Zhanna was left without protection of the Samsonov name, she would be dead. She couldn't repay debts if she was dead. Zhanna had played life's gamble for a long time, she had won and she had lost. If life was a river, it was coming to collect it's dues, taking them away in the current.</p>
<p>Buck was sitting on the front step of his billet, smoking a cigarette when Zhanna threw open the gate and grabbed his arm.</p>
<p>"Jesus, Zhanna," Buck said, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "What's wrong?"</p>
<p>"Sveta," She gasped for air. Russian, Polish, English, the words came out in a jumble. "Pijana...Ne mogu nesti….Please, I can't…"</p>
<p>Buck's cigarette fell to the ground and he stomped it out with his heel. "Where?" He asked and Zhanna grabbed his hand.</p>
<p>They ran, Buck pulling Zhanna along in the stretches where her previous sprints were catching up with her. Their feet hammered on the ground, the sound echoing off the houses and the few men who still wandered Aldbourne barely gave them a second glance.</p>
<p>"There!" Zhanna gasped, pulling him to the field.</p>
<p>"Shit," Buck breathed, only a little winded. Zhanna, who had run this route thrice, was doubled over, breathing heavily. Buck picked up the bottle and overturned it, the contents completely gone. "How much did she drink?"</p>
<p>Zhanna shrugged. Sveta had always been a heavy drinker but then again, so had Zhanna. They could keep pace with the other but even Zhanna knew her limits. Sveta hadn't been drinking for fun or with limitations in mind.</p>
<p>"<em>You asshole</em>," Zhanna hissed, in Russian this time. Her own vodka taking control of her tongue. She rolled Sveta over, and her eyes blinked open, the insult bringing her to. Sveta always responded to curses.</p>
<p>She looked around, blurrily, her gaze still vacant. The vodka had control still, allowing Zhanna to forgive what happened next.</p>
<p>"<em>What is he doing here?</em>" Sveta spat in Russian, glowering at Buck who watched in apprehension at the exchange that he couldn't understand but most definitely could read. "<em>You traitor, he's American. They can't be trusted.</em>"</p>
<p>Traitor. That insult wouldn't have hurt from anyone else. But Sveta thought that Zhanna was a traitor. That she had betrayed Sveta. That Zhanna couldn't be trusted.</p>
<p>"<em>I'm trying to protect us</em>." Sveta shifted, slumping back into the grass. When she moved, Zhanna saw the flash of metal in the moonlight. Her handgun. Zhanna's blood ran cold.</p>
<p>"I'm trying to help you," Zhanna murmured, in English, tucking the handgun in her waistband before Sveta or Buck could see.</p>
<p>"<em>It's no use,</em>" Sveta sighed, closing her eyes again, as if welcoming the darkness of unconsciousness. "<em>He'll kill us.</em>"</p>
<p>She lay still, though her breath was stronger now. Zhanna turned back to Buck, who had watched the exchange with wide eyes. He hadn't stepped in, he didn't say a word now either, just watched Zhanna carefully.</p>
<p>"We need to take her to the medics," Zhanna muttered.</p>
<p>The walk back across Aldbourne to the rows of medic tents was a long one. No sprinting, with Sveta crumpled in Buck's arms. The air was heavy, with the words said, the lashes of the jabs and insults thrown. Zhanna felt like her back had been bared and whipped, lashed at the weakest points. Sveta was her closest friend, the one who knew her better than any other. And Sveta had used it against her.</p>
<p>It was the vodka. Sveta wouldn't do that. The vodka and Veronika's death, still raw. That's what it was.</p>
<p>It wasn't convincing no matter how Zhanna repeated it. No matter what Zhanna tried to attribute to the outburst. Buck hadn't heard it and that was good. If he knew what was said, Zhanna didn't think his already low opinion of Sveta would improve.</p>
<p>"Are you alright?" Buck asked, after their footsteps on the streets had provided a background noise for long enough.</p>
<p>"Yes," She nodded, though it had never felt farther from the truth. Her shoulder ached, a dull pain that was only in her head but it allowed her mind to feel some kind of reaction to Sveta's words. Her shoulder ached when her heart couldn't. "She didn't mean it. She's just….hurting,"</p>
<p>"Didn't mean it?" Buck repeated, disbelieving. "I don't speak Russian but it sounded like she meant it."</p>
<p>"Sveta is hurting." Zhanna said, again. Like someone's pain was enough to justify the pain their own words had caused. The ache in her shoulder and the vodka in her stomach had loosened her lips. Buck knew a little. But he didn't know everything. He didn't understand Sveta. Zhanna didn't either but she knew more than anyone else. "Today is the day her mother died. It's been four years."</p>
<p>The words, crossing her lips for the first time, to another. It was like her mind had been unlocked, allowing the hidden words to be spoken. They were still secrets but Zhanna could look at them again, not be ashamed.</p>
<p>"It was my fault she died. My fault." Zhanna's voice cracked with the intensity of her emotions, the tightening of her throat and the choking hold of her relief. "My fault Veronika is dead and I can't pay Sveta back if she is dead."</p>
<p>"Pay her back?" Buck glanced over at her but Zhanna kept looking ahead, looking straight in front of her. No one would understand the situation that Sveta and Zhanna found themselves in. No one knew why Zhanna was chained. For Buck to understand, he would have to be told everything and even then, he wouldn't understand. Truly comprehend. Even Zhanna didn't know why she was chained to a Samsonov. All she could think was the intoxicating power that this girl held and Zhanna didn't think anyone would feel that pull, the tightness of the chains, quite like she did.</p>
<p>"If she dies, I die." Zhanna said, simply and there was nothing more to be said.</p>
<p>The medic tent, though late, was still occupied. Zhanna, wiping the tears from her eyes, entered the flaps of the tent, to be greeted by a vaguely familiar face. It had swum above her, the hair on her neck sticky and the pain in her shoulder greater than tonight. Doc Roe, a calming presence wherever he went, who was almost unflappable but not at the sight of Sveta's limp form in Buck's arm. Without missing a beat, he instructed the lieutenant to lay her on one of the cots.</p>
<p>Buck was dismissed, his work finished, and promised Zhanna he would be waiting outside. Once Sveta was nestled under a blanket and her pulse checked, Doc turned to Zhanna, a question already formed in his eyes.</p>
<p>"She's been drinking," Zhanna said.</p>
<p>"That much is obvious, Lieutenant," Doc said. "How much?"</p>
<p>"We found her with an empty bottle but I haven't seen her for several hours."</p>
<p>"So you don't know how much she drank?"</p>
<p>"No," came Zhanna's reply.</p>
<p>"Lord have mercy," Roe looked upwards to the canvas ceiling of the tent as if there would be some divine compassion given.</p>
<p>"She's had a bad day," Zhanna murmured.</p>
<p>"I'll keep an eye on her," Roe promised. "She'll be okay, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>The way he spoke her rank was soothing, like honey in the tea Agata used to make before bed. The cup warm in her hands, the tea lulling her off into a deep comfort that Zhanna hadn't known in a long time.</p>
<p>"You don't look well yourself," Roe said, taking a step closer. "How is your shoulder?"</p>
<p>"It's been better," Zhanna admitted. She didn't want him to come any closer. If he did, he would see the redness in her eyes. "I should go. Thank you Doc."</p>
<p>Buck was waiting outside, like he had promised. He gave her a reassuring nod, to what purpose, Zhanna wasn't sure, but it made her feel better all the same.</p>
<p>They were silent, as he walked her back down the familiar streets, a now all together vivid route of silent houses and peaceful store fronts. She felt like she was a ghost, haunting these streets with her aching pain and numb body. The street, lit only by the waning moon, was awash with shadows. Zhanna studied them as she passed, focusing on anything but the events of the night. The promised move of the company, the image of Sveta slumped in the grass, and the word "traitor" branded across her forehead and her heart forever.</p>
<p>Focusing on the shadows and recognizing what made each one was a lighter thing, something that eased the storm in her mind that already promised no sleep tonight. A tree's black form rustled silently on the pavement. The long spindle of the street lamp provided an ineffective bar in their path, on that Zhanna's shoe passed through with ease. Then there was an indistinguishable figure, an image of sloping shoulders, long arms, holding some kind of bottle in it's hand. Zhanna looked up and, startled, grabbing Buck's jacket sleeve.</p>
<p>"Jesus, Nixon," Buck cursed. "Did you have to sneak up on us like that?"</p>
<p>"I didn't sneak," Nixon said, his dark eyes even darker in the night's darkness, now nearing midnight. "I was here the whole time."</p>
<p>He stood in the doorway of his billet, a middle class home with brick walls and ivy climbing to the roof. He was some sort of ghoul, with the bottle of whiskey in one hand and the vacant stare in his eyes. How long had Nixon been out there? Had he been waiting for them?</p>
<p>"What are you two up to? And at this hour?" Nixon asked. "Surely nothing untoward."</p>
<p>He stepped closer, passing the threshold of the house to the street. Though they were still a meter away from each other, Zhanna could almost feel his breath on her neck. As if he could be in front of and behind her at the same time. As if he was watching her all the time.</p>
<p>"We were just taking a walk, Nixon," Buck said, easily. He lied easily. "What are you doing up?"</p>
<p>"Enjoying the fresh air with my favorite company," Nixon gestured at the bottle of Vat 69 whiskey. "My god, Casmirovna, is that a handgun?"</p>
<p>Zhanna's hand flew to her waist, where the handgun she had stolen away from the grass was still tucked, unnoticed by Roe, Buck, and even Zhanna herself. But Nixon never missed anything.</p>
<p>"It's mine," Buck said smoothly, before Zhanna could even open her mouth or take a breath. "Zhanna was holding onto it for me."</p>
<p>"Why would you or <em>Zhanna</em> need a handgun on a walk?" Nixon let the question hang in the air, not expecting a reply and both Zhanna and Buck knew an answer would only ruin their story. If they even had one. Zhanna couldn't try and put one together, not after she had suffered through hearing Nixon say her name. It felt like poison from his lips.</p>
<p>"We should be going," Zhanna finally managed. "A pleasure as always, Captain Nixon,"</p>
<p>Tugging on Buck's sleeve, she brushed past Nixon, who reeked of whiskey.</p>
<p>"I'll tell Dick I saw you," Nixon said, quietly enough for only Zhanna to hear. "He's been worried about you, Zhanna,"</p>
<p>"Tell him thank you, from me," She said, louder now.</p>
<p>"I will," he promised. His eyes followed them, down the street and into the night. Though they couldn't see his figure, in the middle of that street, Zhanna could feel the weight of his eyes on her neck, the shivers down her spine of her name on his lips. Up the slate pavers, into the front door, and buried deep in her covers it still followed her. His eyes and Sveta's mouth forming the word "Traitor". It was all she could see.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. PART THREE: ...what choice but simple duty...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PART THREE</p><p>"Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers.<br/>No animal must ever kill any other animal.<br/>All animals are equal."</p><p>- George Orwell, Animal Farm</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>Sveta returned from the medic tent with dark circles under her eyes and a burning rage to Zhanna and the world. Roe had said that she would recover, though it was inadvisable to drink that much again, regardless of the kind of day Sveta was having. She was still angry at Zhanna for bringing Buck along, though they had saved her life. Sveta's wish to drown out the pain hadn't removed the distrust of the American army. Their room crackled with tension and Sveta would either ignore her friend or respond with a scathing tone. Zhanna spent as much time away from it as she could, a feat she already managed quite well and was further assisted by preparations for their next jump.</p><p>Though Buck had known little, it was soon revealed to the officers the nature of their next mission. Operation Market Garden was the dream of the Allied brass to give life to the men's hope of Berlin by Christmas. They would be jumping into the Netherlands, seizing bridges and towns, in the attempt to push back the German line at its weakest link. Nixon was assured that the defenses were old men and young boys, virtually useless against the strength of the battle-hardened soldiers.</p><p>"In terms of airborne divisions involved, this one's even bigger than Normandy," Winters spoke in well-rehearsed words, gesturing at the map. "We're dropping deep into occupied Holland. The Allied objective is to take this road here between Eindhoven and Arnhem so the two British armored divisions can move up it toward Arnhem."</p><p>Turning back to the group of officers who watched the maps, the air mixed with pessimism and dread, Winter said. "Our job is gonna be to liberate Eindhoven."</p><p>Captain Winters was confident, or at least he seemed to be, standing in front of the men, gesturing at the maps and movements of the troops. They had seen these kinds of sand tables and meticulous planning before. D-Day, which was considered a success, but Zhanna couldn't forget her two days in the farmland of Normandy, wading through rivers and avoiding German soldiers. She didn't have a weapon and she hadn't had back up. She wasn't keen to repeat the experience.</p><p>Winters' eyes went right over her head, as if he didn't see her. Whether or not Nixon had been telling the truth or twisting a tale to get a reaction, Zhanna hoped her message of gratitude had made it back to him. She didn't approach him, not sure what news had made its way to him, about the night of August 21st. Nixon hadn't missed anything, not Zhanna's sprints across town or Sveta's release from the medical tent the following evening. But did Winters know about it? Was he trying to solve the puzzle of the Russian snipers as devotedly as Nixon?</p><p>Buck shared her skepticism, though he was the more optimistic of the pair. He tried to reassure Zhanna that this wouldn't be like D-Day. "I won't push you out of the plane this time," he said, jokingly. As if that was the reason she had dropped alone.</p><p>In truth, the idea of being back on Europe's continent, even closer to her family's home, even closer to Russia was enough to scatter her mind across the causeway. The jump had come quickly, not the long drawn out affair D-Day had been. In many ways, this jump felt like her first. Zhanna didn't have to lighten the load, no necklace thrown or family ties tossed to the wind. She felt ready. She at least knew what to expect.</p><p>The replacements, Zhanna had come to recognize the faces of four or five of them, didn't have that same confidence. Their fingers trembling as they tried to assemble their gear, they looked up nervously, not wanting to seem like they were struggling in front of the seasoned soldiers.</p><p>Those men whose boots had touched French soil in June were just as jumpy but they hid it better than the fresh blood.</p><p>The ranks of officers had been filled by replacements, as well. Men, who had seen Normandy and all its battles, would have to take orders from men who they hadn't fought side by side with.</p><p>Lieutenant Peacock had been transferred as assistant leader of First Platoon. While there was no hard dislike of the man, none of the older platoon members seemed too excited about his sudden leadership. Especially when he ordered Martin to give him the signal to jump, a responsibility that lay in his hands.</p><p>Zhanna assembled her gear in silence, letting the conversation of the other men wash over her. Her ear, now fully recovered, tuned them out by choice. Sveta was somewhere in the crowd, Zhanna hadn't seen her since the night before. Their last night in beds for who knew how long. She had tried to make conversation, ask if she was nervous for the jump.</p><p>Sveta had just rolled over and muttered, "Good night."</p><p>Zhanna would try to find her later, she decided. To wish her luck. Casimir would say that they made their own luck. That Sveta would have to work for her own luck. Someone tapped her shoulder and Zhanna looked up. She cursed under her breath, wishing she had worked harder for luck herself.</p><p>"Sobel," Muck said, though he didn't need to say it. They all saw him. They could all feel his presence.</p><p>The man had been a distant memory to Zhanna, hidden away in some repressed corner of her mind with the many nights she had spent at Maria's, shivering in the cold. She wanted to forget him, like she had tried to forget the sleepless hours, watching the NKVD patrol outside. But life hadn't allowed their paths to part permanently and her luck had run out.</p><p>The men all took a step back, turning around and leaving Zhanna out in the open. No shadow to hide in. No sight of a friendly face. Just khaki backs turned to her and the dark eyes of Sobel before her.</p><p>"Lieutenant," he said.</p><p>"Captain."</p><p>"I see you've been promoted," He acknowledged the new rank on her uniform with distaste and mock admiration. "Congratulations."</p><p>"Thank you, sir," Zhanna said. "And is your promotion to your satisfaction?"</p><p>Sobel recoiled, looking her up and down, as if to wonder where the shy second lieutenant had gone, who would take the insults and the degrading assignments without complaint. Zhanna had allies now and she wasn't afraid of what Sobel could do to her, not when he was shuffling cans and driving trucks, like the one behind him. It was familiar work to Zhanna but Sobel didn't know there wasn't any power in it.</p><p>He didn't answer her question though it was found in his avoidance, instead saying, "Good luck, Lieutenant, on the jump."</p><p>"Thank you sir." Zhanna saluted, adjusting the rifle around her shoulder. His eyes glued onto the barrel, the prize that got away, and he scowled before turning on his heel. He left, to go count cans like he had ordered Zhanna to do often.</p><p>"What was that about?" one of the replacements, Garcia, asked, as the platoon who was assembled, let out a sigh of relief and turned back to face Zhanna again.</p><p>"Captain Sobel and Lieutenant Casmirovna have been at odds since Benning, kid," Martin said. "He took her Russian hat and she's been on his bad side ever since."</p><p>"Over a hat?" Garcia asked.</p><p>"My pilotka had the Red Army marking," Zhanna said. "I wasn't his to order."</p><p>When he removed the pilotka, he removed a part of her. Something Zhanna had then been forced to do with her necklace but she had done it for safety. Sobel had stripped her of a piece of her pride, her hard-earned pride.</p><p>"Who is he?" Hashey asked, another replacement who's name could be matched to a face.</p><p>"Our first CO," Bull said, casting a shadow over the group, who huddled together as if Sobel still lurked to listen in on their conversation. Bull had taken a great liking to the replacements, watching over them from on high.</p><p>"What happened to him?"</p><p>"He got promoted," Martin said.</p><p>He was promoted and removed from the company, to be replaced by first Meehan and then Winters. Winters, who was now visible through the crowds, bright red hair standing out against the rest. Winters, who understood what Zhanna had learned long ago, about survival, about winning, and about orders. Market Garden was well planned. The Brass were confident. But Zhanna knew that, if the time came, Winters would follow her, and not the orders. She was to be a vital role in the mission, with her sniper skills and previous experience in the field. Winters hadn't forgotten her work in Carentan, and neither had Zhanna. She just hoped she wouldn't encounter another tank.</p><p>Zhanna pushed her way through the crowd, knowing that they would be loading soon, and wanting to fulfill her promise to herself. That she would wish Sveta luck. She had to tell her about Sobel.</p><p>The dark-haired girl sat on the black causeway, in the shadows of a pile of cargo, her back to the crates. She didn't look up when Zhanna approached. She didn't move when she sat beside her. Neither spoke for a long, breathless, moment. Zhanna reached into her jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes. Flipping it open, she offered it to Sveta, who laughed sharply and took one.</p><p>"Are these from Speirs?" she asked, rolling it between her fingertips. They didn't smoke, not there, not either of them but it was a thoughtless bridge between them. A harmless gesture.</p><p>"Yes," Zhanna said. "None of the enlisted seem to want them."</p><p>That made Sveta laugh again, just as sharply. "I can't imagine why."</p><p>She kept rolling it between her fingertips, as the silence fell between them. Platoon leaders started gathering their men to the assembling area. They would be boarding soon and Zhanna would have to find Muck and Malarkey but she waited.</p><p>"What did you want?" Sveta asked when the moment continued to drag and the men began to drift off towards the shadows of the planes. They really had to be going, both of them, but neither Sveta nor Zhanna made a move.</p><p>"I wanted to wish you luck," Zhanna said. She would have to make it herself but the sentiment was still welcome, surely. Luck was a personal quest but Zhanna wanted Sveta to succeed. She didn't want Sveta to keep thinking of her like she had that night. That she had said aloud. A traitor. A danger. Sveta was trying to keep them safe but Zhanna was trying to survive. She had been doing it long enough but the harsh truth was, without Sveta, it didn't matter what game she played or how she avoided life. Without Sveta, Zhanna would be dead.</p><p>"I'll need it," Sveta said, pocketing the cigarette. She stood up. "We both will."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. ...the gun against my head...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
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<p>
  <strong>17 September 1944 | Eindhoven, The Netherlands</strong>
</p>
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<p>Chaos always bred danger. Sveta had learned that early in her military career. Chaos was not inherently bad. Chaos was just an opportunity. Depending on who could pull the strings behind the chaos, it meant a strength or a weakness for her. And unfortunately in Eindhoven, the chaos did not belong to the Allies.</p>
<p>A terrible cacophony of disjointed voices filled the town. Men and women who had lived under Nazi occupation for almost half a decade took to the streets with drink and flags as the Americans moved through the town that had become theirs with suspiciously minimal effort. Hot breath filled every inch of space as she tried to work her way towards any sort of island in the chaos. The jump had felt like freedom again. But this, this chaos felt like drowning.</p>
<p>Her heart pounded. Sveta could feel the fear in her own body causing the sweat to pool under the heavy clothes and near her hair. Each breath became harder to take as the swarms of men and women descended on her. In the center of the raging crowd, she felt like little more than a small doll that could get stuffed into a dark chest, locked away, and never pulled into the sun again.</p>
<p>She couldn't understand them. She'd never learned Dutch, and her knowledge of French did nothing to help. Tears sprung to her eyes as they jostled her again and she felt a hand brush against her chest. She had to get out.</p>
<p>Sveta shoved with all her strength. The crowd gave way, parting so she could leave. Sveta raised her arms to shield her face as she drove a wedge between soldier and civilian, man and woman. As she reached a wall, she rubbed her palms on her waist. The solid mass behind her soothed her nerves.</p>
<p>It worked until she saw the dark, partially open windows in the upper stories. All of her rifle training kicked in. Those dark windows gave perfect cover. A smart sniper could sit in the shadows, cover his rifle with a dark cloth, and allow for only a muzzle to peep into the sun. He could take out dozens. They wouldn't even know what hit them.</p>
<p>And each window could hold a sniper. Instinct kicked in. Sveta turned her collar up and inward; hide the Captain's bars. A sniper would love to take out an officer. She grimaced as she saw no way to take the massive American flag patch off her uniform. The red, white, and blue would paint a bullseye for any Nazi looking. She could've picked off the Americans one by one from any of those upper windows.</p>
<p>She readjusted her helmet and her grip on the Mosin-Nagant. The crowds, barely accommodating the British tanks rolling through the street, had to be navigated. She took a deep breath. She tried to calm her nerves. Just a crowd.</p>
<p>Sveta made her way towards a chanting group amidst the sea of Dutch. Their words meant nothing, but the anger behind every spoken syllable didn't need a translator. She shoved Alley and Liebgott out of the way. But as she reached the circle, Sveta almost wished she hadn't.</p>
<p>Her breathing stopped. Two men held three women to the ground, pulled up by their hair. Sobs racked their bodies nearly in unison as the crowd screamed and spat at them. Their blood, red against their pale skin and the grey cobbles, trickled in lines from the rough use of scissors against their hair.</p>
<p>Sveta could not speak. Even as one stumbled away bald, nearly falling as her ankles bent in her heels against the cobbles, Sveta couldn't speak. In their eyes, she saw her own. They bled the same red as she would, if Beria could ever prove her treasonous thoughts. That would be her.</p>
<p>Or, that would be her if she got lucky. There were other options of course. Firing squad in an alley. Execution by hanging; Sveta knew the Germans liked that one. She could be sent to rot in the Gulag, or abandoned in Siberia. And if they didn't want her dead, Beria would be waiting, ready to call her Svetochka as he did whenever they'd minced words at parties. He'd be ready with his roses.</p>
<p>Someone gripped her arm. Sveta spun, twisting to smack the arm away as her adrenaline spiked. Fear controlled her movements. Just as she angled the man's arm away, she froze. It wasn't Beria. It wasn't even a Russian in front of her. Just Winters, who couldn't seem able to decide between showing the pain his arm must've been in at her move or confusion at her actions. Sveta let go as he grimaced against the pain.</p>
<p>"We're moving out," he told her. Even though he raised his voice to be heard over the still shouting crowd, he almost couldn't cut through their vitriol. "Come on."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. Wasting no more time, Sveta pushed after him where she saw Harry, Compton, and Nixon. The foremost looked at her in confusion. He must've seen her reaction. Sveta bit her lip. But as she reached Harry, he said nothing.</p>
<p>"The Dutch resistance got some intel from an outside source in addition to their runners," Winters said. He pointed towards a doorway where a group of six stood. "I don't know who they are, but Strayer said we can trust them."</p>
<p>Sveta narrowed her eyes. They looked familiar. Three men, three women. Two were blonde, one had red hair, and the last three had dark hair. But she couldn't place them. It bothered her to not know where their sources came from, but Winters left them no time to debate as he moved forward. She followed.</p>
<p>"We need to reach the next bridge ASAP," Winters continued. "Harry, Buck, find the other officers and Lipton. Make sure they get the men organized outside the city limits immediately."</p>
<p>Sveta spared them barely a glance as Harry and Compton split. Where Compton had gone, Zhanna probably would end up. The man who had decided he had more right to protect the woman's Soviet rifle than her Soviet friend. Sveta clenched her fists. But she had to move on. So instead she just let her gaze linger on the empty windows.</p>
<p>"Samsonova!"</p>
<p>She flinched at Winters' stern voice. Shoving down her fear as she realized he and Nixon were scrutinizing her every move, Sveta nodded for him to lead the way again. It didn't take too much longer for them to reach the city limits. They found Dog Company already assembling off to the left. With the crowd behind them, Sveta breathed a bit easier.</p>
<p>"Are you alright?" Winters' mouth set in a thin line as he watched her.</p>
<p>Nixon stood sipping at his flask. But he did much the same, watching her every movement. He raised an eyebrow. "You're extra jumpy today."</p>
<p>Her fists clenched as anger surged through her. They didn't know. They couldn't know, they couldn't understand. They could never grasp what it had been like to live near a man who shadowed her every move, who prowled the halls of Stalin's estates waiting to catch her alone, catch her with her guard down. They couldn't understand, and the two men in front of her were not on her list of people she wanted to explain it to. No one was on that list. Not even Zhanna.</p>
<p>"I'm fine. Your concern is duly noted, but unfounded," Sveta insisted. "Let's get moving. We aren't here to stand gawking at the girls in pretty dresses."</p>
<p>"Dick, she's fine, didn't you know? Sounds just like her usual cheerful self," Nixon said. He smiled, as if making a joke, but the sarcasm dripping from his voice reflected the hardness of his dark eyes.</p>
<p>She could feel her jaw clench. She could feel her fists balling up, wanting to hit something, anything. Fight, not flight. She had learned to fight after August 1940. "Shut your mouth, Captain, before I shut it for you."</p>
<p>"Both of you stop. Now," Winters insisted. "Samsonova, go check with Dog Company, check with their CO and then report back here within ten minutes. I want to be gone no later than that."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded once, then stalked off. She could hear Nixon snickering behind his flask as even as her back turned. Some days, she could almost tolerate him. Not like him, but tolerate him. Other days she wanted to shoot him. And apparently, today was one of those days.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Kelly!" She called over to the Platoon Leader for Third Platoon. The man turned, grimacing a bit when he saw her but straightening up and offering a salute she returned. "Where's Lieutenant McMillan?"</p>
<p>"He's with Second Platoon, ma'am." Kelly pointed some meters down the line, behind himself. "Is Easy moving out?"</p>
<p>"Yes. In no more than ten minutes." She paused. "Tell McMillan to follow us out. I need to locate Captain Winters and Major Strayer."</p>
<p>"Yes, ma'am."</p>
<p>With a final nod, she turned to look over his gathered troops. As usual, they regarded her with a mix of cold disgust and total indifference. She preferred the latter. Sveta didn't mind Dog, not anymore. She didn't like them, but they were competent. Much more than Fox Company and even Sveta had to admit that McMillan was an excellent leader. He deserved the promotion to Commanding Officer.</p>
<p>Sveta found Winters and Harry by a tank. They were chatting with one of the British officers, pointing down the road. By the time she reached them, they'd finished up and moved off. Winters nodded to her. "Nixon and I are taking a jeep if you want to join. Otherwise the men are hitching rides on the tanks."</p>
<p>"I'll take the tank," Sveta told him. Then she turned to Harry, "Have you seen Casmirovna?"</p>
<p>"She and Buck were checking on Second Platoon," Harry said. "I'm heading up to First, if you want shotgun."</p>
<p>"Shotgun?"</p>
<p>He chuckled. "Never mind. Must be an American thing."</p>
<p>They moved off towards the front of the Armored caravan. Men swarmed the tanks like ants on a honeyed treat. She saw Muck and Penkala climbing as far up as they could on the third one, and on the first, Martin, Bull, and their squads.</p>
<p>Harry and Sveta climbed onto the second one. She accepted his grip as he hauled her up, plopping down near the barrel of the gun. Next to her sat Alley, and on his right, Sisk. Liebgott jumped on just before the machine roared to life.</p>
<p>While Harry turned to chat with Luz and Perconte on his right, Sveta sat silent. She watched out at the countryside, green and lush as she had always heard the Netherlands were like. It reminded her a bit of home, or what she wished home could be. Beautiful, calm. Alive.</p>
<p>"Hey, Captain, you ever been here?"</p>
<p>Sveta turned. Alley had spoken to her, but Liebgott and Sisk leaned closer to hear her answer. She still didn't speak much to the enlisted. Zhanna got along with them much better. They had accepted her. But Sveta was a Russian with ties to the elite, and though they didn't know that elite was the NKVD, they seemed to sense the danger of associating too close.</p>
<p>"The Netherlands?" When he nodded, she shook her head. "No. Besides Russia, I have been to Finland, and Austria once, as a child. Britain, France, and America now," she reminded him. "But not here."</p>
<p>"How cold is Russia?" Sisk asked her.</p>
<p>Sveta grinned. She shook her head, looking away for a moment. The ever-popular question. It seemed that Russia and Siberia were one and the same to anyone not from there. Or at least, any American. "Not everywhere, no. In Stalingrad, where I grew up, it gets as warm as many of the places we trained in America."</p>
<p>"Really? Fuck. Why do people get so scared of the Eastern Front then?"</p>
<p>Sveta's smile fell. "Because some of Russia is bitterly cold, Liebgott. And the Krauts were not prepared when they invaded, not like my people." The tiniest hint of a smirk broke her frown. "They found out the hard way that the Motherland will never fall."</p>
<p>"Shit. Crazy stuff," Alley said. He nodded. "So you like it there?"</p>
<p>Sveta hesitated. But before she had to answer, Sergeant More pointed to their left. Sveta looked out beyond the men on her tank. Sisk stood up to try to get a better view, but she could see just fine. She could see the bleeding, broken woman cradling a child to her chest in her ripped clothes.</p>
<p>She didn't even cry. Her dead eyes reminded Sveta of the women who she'd seen around Beria. The woman's brown eyes looked towards the men. She saw Sveta, and for the briefest moment, she considered getting down. But then she remembered the thousand eyes that would be drawn to her and realized she couldn't.</p>
<p>In the same way she couldn't help the women with Beria, the best she could offer her was a tiny smile and a nod. When the tank moved past, she sighed. The world would spin on. The woman would be forgotten. It never changed.</p>
<p>"I mean, yeah, I feel bad for the broad but she slept with the Krauts," Liebgott argued to Alley. She had missed what had prompted it, but Liebgott continued on and she felt the blood drain from her heart. "Anyone who associates with the Nazis is a collaborator, far as I'm concerned."</p>
<p>"Ain't that the truth," More agreed. "Nazis fucks."</p>
<p>Alley shrugged. "Yeah, guess so." He dug through his pocket and pulled out a handful of cigarettes. Liebgott, More, and Sisk accepted them gladly. Then he turned to her. "Captain?"</p>
<p>Words caught in her throat. But she nodded and took one. They didn't understand. She couldn't let them understand. They could never know about the NKVD and Gestapo. They could never know that it had been her father to bring them together. They could never know because they could never understand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. ...till my heart goes numb...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
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<p>After her previous experiences with a tank, Zhanna wasn't pleased to be transported by one. The joint mission of Brits and Americans had been less than enthusiastically received, on both sides, and they wore their identifying armbands with great pride. Zhanna didn't care which flag she had on her arm, American or British. She could still feel the ground shaking beneath her as the German tanks approached in Carentan. She didn't really want to sit amongst the other paratroopers, reclining against the metal that reeked of oil and gunpowder. But she had accepted Buck's hand and allowed herself to be hoisted up, balancing her rifle across her knees.</p>
<p>Brushing shoulders with fellow paratroopers was reassuring after their time in Eindhoven, shoved and jostled by the locals. She had removed the helmet that marked her as American, becoming inconspicuous in the crowd. The officers hadn't considered snipers until Zhanna had breathed a word to Winters. She knew exactly where she would have hidden, if this had been her mission, one of the tall buildings that overshadowed the citizens and the soldiers. It would have been all too easy to pick off officers one by one.</p>
<p>Chaos made a sniper's work easy and the streets of Eindhoven were a breeding ground for that perfect element. The men had played into it, enjoying the attention from the adoring citizens, particularly the female portion. Buck wandered up with a girl on each arm, something he was wont to do even in England. Zhanna had shot him a look, warning him of the dangers without saying a word.</p>
<p>The men were less than enthused to leave the adoration behind but Zhanna was a little more relaxed now, out in the open of the fields and countryside. Only the path of the tank treads in front of them and the mission of Operation Market Garden heavy on their minds.</p>
<p>Even then, the awareness of her surroundings wasn't dull. She was focused, her eyes flitting left and right without an afterthought, no conscious effort. Just instinct. As they neared the smudge of a town in the distance, Zhanna squinted in the bright sun, ignoring the words of the men around her. Randleman complained about his preference for K rations. Buck rested his head against the metal of the tank, his eyes closed, snoring slightly. Skip and Malarkey chattered loudly above the drone of the tank. But Zhanna couldn't focus on any of that. She couldn't.</p>
<p>Before the first shot had even landed its mark, Zhanna was already ducking. Something in the air shifted and she just knew. A sixth sense that was the residual ache in her shoulder told her that a pair of eyes were watching her, a scope pointed at their procession of paratroopers and British tanks.</p>
<p>"Take a look at Eisenhower," someone called, pointing at the lead scout, several meters from the safety of the group. He shouldn't have been that far. Brewer, his name was.</p>
<p>Someone shouted to get his attention, to pull him back to where there was strength in numbers. But it was too late.</p>
<p>Zhanna was already sliding off the tank, ignoring Muck's confused looks, and shrugging off Buck's hand. He thought that she had fallen but it was in fact, intentional. She didn't want to see the white walls of the hospital back in England again. She didn't want to press flowers, stare at the ceiling, and retreat to the darkest reaches of her mind to avoid the shadows that danced on the walls at night. She slipped off the tank before the shot was fired and chaos broke loose.</p>
<p>Her knees had hit the ground and her rifle was raised before the men were called into action, before they readied their guns and leapt for cover. While the men stepped forward, Zhanna did what she did best. She stepped back.</p>
<p>Back from the bright spotlight. Back from the main push toward the town, where shots were firing and men were already falling. Zhanna stepped back.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Casmirovna," Winters nodded in greeting, incredibly polite for a battlefield. He stood with Nixon at the stalling tanks, waiting for orders and the radiomen to get into position. Zhanna hadn't spent much time at the back of the fight. Usually, she was above it, or several thousand meters away in a well-disguised hide. She wasn't the one to watch from the rear with the officers.</p>
<p>"You going to flank, Lieutenant Casmirovna?" Nixon asked.</p>
<p>"Are you going to fight, Captain Nixon?" Zhanna responded with the same tone, innocent question but a waspish intention behind it. Nixon hadn't fired a gun since training. He preferred to stalk the shadows and collect secrets than the trophies the enlisted returned with.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant," Winters said. "What do you see?"</p>
<p>He offered her his set of binoculars, which she peered through with interest, watching as Buck got the mortar men into position and the enlisted made their push up the streets of the seemingly empty town.</p>
<p>"Looks empty," Zhanna said.</p>
<p>"Well it isn't," Nixon scoffed.</p>
<p>"It looks empty but there are surely fortifications in those buildings. Snipers, machine guns. Perhaps a tank or two." Zhanna lowered the binoculars, forgetting for a moment that they were in a battle, and shooting the man a withering look. "Don't worry though. I'm sure it's just kids and old men."</p>
<p>Watching the battle play out before her, through the scope of her rifle was like watching puppets prance across a stage. They moved, almost as if they were controlled by one mind. One single soul controlling their every whim and order. That soul was Winters, who called for a radioman and was communicating to his men on the field, orchestrating the song and dance with precision. Zhanna watched in wonder. He was nothing like the commanders she had followed into battle, nothing like Sobel, who she had prepared herself to disobey.</p>
<p>Winters was a figurehead of this battle, standing out in the open, with only the slightest furrow to his brow to show his concern. Zhanna would have followed Winters into hell, gladly, without the slightest thought of insubordination. Winters understood survival and he understood her. They weren't allies, like Buck and Zhanna. But he was the closest thing she had at the moment.</p>
<p>Buck ran through the town, followed by a trail of soldiers. Zhanna's scope didn't provide the clearest image but she knew that Buck would be taking good care of the men. Sveta ran among the men, somewhere with a rifle in her hand and the anger she always had ready to explode like dynamite. She wasn't worried about Sveta's ability to handle herself in a battle but she could still see Sveta in that field, all self-control drowned in the bottle. If she lost herself in this fight, all caution to the wind, Zhanna would be too far away to help her. Too far to pull her back from the brink.</p>
<p>"What are they doing?" Nixon asked.</p>
<p>"Martin sees something," Zhanna guessed. "Look!"</p>
<p>The tiny figure of Martin darted between the buildings, leaping onto the British tank, lowering his head to speak to the driver. From the gestures of his arm and the smudged anger on his face, Zhanna didn't think it was good news.</p>
<p>Glancing around, Zhanna couldn't get a good view of the battle. She needed to be taller to help. Taller to do anything. Higher, get higher, she thought. Her eyes rested on the transports that were stalling on the road, the truck bed was slightly higher than her usual height, giving her an advantage.</p>
<p>Propping her arm up on the wood of the side, she balanced her rifle's barrel on her forearm, peering through the scope toward the battle once again. There was little she could see around the buildings but the height had aided her. She could at least see over the shrubs now. Chaos was the breeding ground for snipers and Zhanna was in her element now, perfectly at home in the ever-shifting and flowing tide of the battle. She could watch it all from her position at the rear.</p>
<p>The chattering over the radio told her that there were machine gunners in the upper stories of the town. Pivoting her rifle, she scanned the windows of the upper floors visible from her position. A few were empty, just fluttering white curtains in the wind. But there were two, to her one o'clock that were open and the barrel of a machine gun was visible. She fired two shots in the span of one breath, letting it exhale as the rattle, if not ceasing, lessened in intensity.</p>
<p>There was only so much she could do before the shouts for the retreat were made through the radio. It was frustrating, to know that if she was closer, if that damn building wasn't in the way, and if they had known, they could have been winning this fight. While survival was a bigger weight in Zhanna's mind, she couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. Like the falling of the tide, the men pulled back, revealing the shore of their defeat. Broken walls, lost soldiers, and those who had fallen behind. Zhanna tore herself away from the scope to scan the faces of the men who ran around her, searching for safety in the transports as the remaining British tanks provided covering fire.</p>
<p>"Sveta?" Zhanna asked, as Winters passed the transport she was still crouched in. He shook his head. She shuffled forward and he swung her down to the ground, their feet matching pace as they sped among the retreating men. Winters shouted out encouragement and urgency, as Zhanna's eyes darted around her. Surely Sveta would be passing her. Surely, she was alright. Luck had been her only thought, as she had shared the pack of Lucky Strikes with Sveta. Surely that had rubbed off on her. Surely, Sveta would have made her own luck with the little bit of help Zhanna had tried to give her.</p>
<p>The dark head, braided as always, moved past accompanied by Malarkey, Guarnere, and Skip, pulling a long plank of wood that looked like a door. On the back, clinging on for life, was Buck. He looked pale and Zhanna almost forgot about Sveta in the sudden fear that gripped her heart. Buck was her only key to safety here in the American army. Her ally, her friend. Zhanna watched as they hoisted him onto the transport, where he lay, his face twisted in pain. Blood stained his trousers.</p>
<p>"Shot in the ass," Skip said, clapping his platoon leader and friend on the shoulder, "Poor bastard."</p>
<p><em>"Doc Roe says he'll be okay</em>," Sveta said, in Russian. She sounded a little more sympathetic to his plight than the fellow paratroopers who managed to crack smiles as they loaded up the transports, readying themselves for departure.</p>
<p>The ditches were still flooding with men and while Winters encouraged them to keep moving, to hurry, the engines were starting and a few transports had moved out. A sudden retreat wasn't what they had planned. It certainly wasn't what ZHanna wanted. But survival trumped pride.</p>
<p>"Keep low!" Zhanna encouraged Sisk and Powers as they ran past her. The transport they had picked was already pulling away, their comrades had to pull them onto the bed before it was too late and they were left in the dust. Like Sveta and Zhanna would be. And like, Winters and Nixon would be as well. They still stood, watching the line retreat. They would be the last to load up, a surely intentional move on Winters's part.</p>
<p>Zhanna slid into place beside them, Sveta close behind. Her shoulder ached and Zhanna ducked before the bullet pinged against the metal, dragging Sveta down with her. Beside them, Nixon fell to the ground. While Winters dove to his friend's aid, Zhanna couldn't help but regret that it hadn't been her bullet. He was still alive, she saw out of the corner of her eye, that he had sat up. Only a dent in his helmet. Pity.</p>
<p>Scrambling to the safety of the tank's treads, Sveta and Zhanna shuffled over so the American captains could shelter, joined by Lipton.</p>
<p>"Captain, we've got four dead. Eleven wounded," came the sergeant's report. It wasn't bad, for an all-out retreat.</p>
<p>"All right," Winters said, admitting the numbers. "Let's move them out."</p>
<p>Their transport, the last to leave the stretch of road that had seen Brewer's blood and the loss of several familiar faces, didn't let off speed until the echoes of the German artillery were deafened and the rooftops on the horizon were nothing but a gray haze. Zhanna pushed herself upright, thrown unceremoniously into the back of the truck in a combined effort by Winters and Nixon to get the snipers to safety. They were branded by the American flag on their shoulders but Zhanna knew that Winters didn't want to be responsible for the death of a Samsonov. Though it wasn't their only concern, it might have been part of the reason that they stopped for the night in a quiet stretch of road, with soft tilled fields on either side, and were ordered to dig in for the night.</p>
<p>Buck and the other injured were taken to a field hospital, where they would no doubt be patched up as best they could, and then ferried back to England. Now devoid of an ally and a familiar face, Zhanna decided to rekindle the partnership that had gotten her to the wrong side of the Atlantic to begin with. Sveta welcomed her back without a word, and they dug in their foxhole for the night. The men around them whispered of their lost comrade, Bull Randleman, who hadn't been seen dead or alive since arriving in the town some hours previously. Some were optimistic, others were not. Zhanna didn't think she was invested, one way or another. The warm wind was almost intoxicating and the thought of her being a step closer to her family was almost too much. She almost didn't mind the crushing defeat. Almost.</p>
<p>Zhanna settled into the deep coffin of earth, her skin crawling in discomfort but the feeling couldn't be helped. She considered trying to sneak into one of the transports and curling up there but the soft dirt was more forgiving than the wooden planks and her shoulder still ached. Comfort for her aching body seemed more important than removing herself from the coffin of damp earth.</p>
<p>"Captain, Lieutenant," It was Winters and Nixon, standing above their foxhole, disguised in semi-darkness. It called back to their first meeting, at Fort Benning, where Zhanna had watched in suspicion, abandoned by Sveta. The American military had tried to divide them, to conquer them when they were at their weakest. It was a mistake that many made, assuming that Zhanna and Sveta were weaker alone.</p>
<p>"Come to wish us sweet dreams?" Sveta asked. "Or ask for tactical advice?"</p>
<p>"We'll accept both," Zhanna reassured them. Winters's eyes brightened though his face didn't shift to show any trace of emotion. He was good at hiding them. Zhanna almost forgot he could show them.</p>
<p>Nixon rolled his eyes. "I think I liked it better when you two didn't talk."</p>
<p>"We just came to check up on you two," Winters said. How the tides had changed since their arrival in Easy. The men at least tolerated them now. Nixon was still trying to.</p>
<p>"We're both fine," Sveta said.</p>
<p>It was a well-meant lie. Fine, no matter how she tried, could ever describe how Zhanna felt. It was impossible to be chained to someone and be fine. It was impossible to have her shoulder aching with the changing in the winds and still be fine. Buck wasn't here and her family's home was growing closer and it wasn't fine.</p>
<p>Sveta stood, Zhanna following suit, and they joined the men on the solid ground. She straightened to her fullest height, which was considerably shorter than Nixon and Winters. Their shadows, not comforting or protective like Buck and Sveta's, were heavy, weighing her down.</p>
<p>"Is Operation Market Garden the dazzling success we hoped it would be?" Welsh approached the group, shouldering his way into the circle.</p>
<p>"Not quite," Nixon grimaced.</p>
<p>"The Germans bombed Eindhoven," Winters said.</p>
<p>"Damn," Welsh breathed, reaching for his flask.</p>
<p>They didn't speak. Sveta and Zhanna had both seen what the Germans would do to a city. Smolensk had been their only battle, a deadly game of divide and conquer. Like the American had tried in Benning. What the Germans were doing now. If they could stop the American advance, they could stall Market Garden, delaying the inevitable push to Germany that every soldier knew was coming.</p>
<p>Nixon's eyes studied their reaction, watching curiously for any glimmer of emotion. As if the small Dutch town would mean something to them. Why should it? There were lives that Zhanna valued more than the bodies that had crushed her the previous day, lives that Zhanna hadn't seen in reality since 1938. Should she had felt sorry for the lives that were being crushed as hers had been? Buried beneath rubble? She supposed but not enough to admit it in front of Nixon. Not enough to elicit a reaction that would then be used as ammunition to volley against her, like her name.</p>
<p>"What's the plan now?" Welsh asked.</p>
<p>"I don't know," Winters said. He looked nothing like the figurehead of the battle earlier that day. Not the mastermind of movements, deploying troops to his orders. He looked tired, his hair flattened beneath the helmet, the color duller in this silver light.</p>
<p>"Guarnere says they can't find Bull," Welsh pressed further. "They're about to send a platoon out to look for him."</p>
<p>Zhanna shook her head. "That would be foolish."</p>
<p>She wasn't one to blatantly declare her stance on an idea but the thought of returning to find one man was too ridiculous to remain passive. They could wish for their safety, hope for their return but there was little to be done. One man, seen neither dead nor alive, wasn't enough to endanger the lives of countless more. She liked Randleman well enough and he was a good soldier but he had fallen behind.</p>
<p>"You don't think he is worth going back for?" Nixon latched onto her display of opinion quickly.</p>
<p>"It isn't the value of his life," Sveta said, leaping to her defense. "But the value of the others. How many men are we going to risk for one?"</p>
<p>"We can hope for his safety," Zhanna suggested. That was all they could do, an art she was skilled at. She had hoped for her family's safe return, their hands in her own, so often it felt like a memory, not a dream. Hope was the enemy of the river, so she spent as much time wallowing in it as she could, keeping at bay the impending payment of both her dues to life and her shackles to the Samsonovs.</p>
<p>"You sound familiar with the tactic," Nixon said.</p>
<p>"It's a common practice," Zhanna said, softly. "So is keeping thoughts to yourself. Are you familiar with that tactic, Captain?"</p>
<p>Sveta laughed, sharp and low, but Nixon didn't mind the jab. He didn't even blink, pressing on with such force that Winters looked aghast. "You surely have people in Stalingrad you hope are safe, after the bombings in '42 and '43,"</p>
<p>"Jesus, Nixon," Welsh cursed. "Just ask them outright, why don't you?"</p>
<p>"I am, of course, keeping the Premier and his family in my thoughts," Sveta said, dutifully. Her voice was tight though, and her eyes burned into Nixon, into his curiosity and outright audacity. They weren't intelligence reports to be opened and perused at his leisure. It wasn't evidence of espionage he was looking for now. He just wanted to piece together the puzzles, like this was a game. That their lives were his game, pushing pawns and knights around the board.</p>
<p>"And you, Zhanna?"</p>
<p>He used her name as a weapon, seeing through her with a clarity that Zhanna despised. He wouldn't call her Casmirovna, clearly catching on that this wasn't her true name. But he still didn't know her family name and he didn't know the true origin of Polyakov. He would never know if Zhanna could help it.</p>
<p>The only answer he received was a piercing stare, one that cast Winters's gaze to his jump boots and sent a low whistle from Welsh's lips. Zhanna's family wasn't a topic of conversation, her hopes and wishes weren't public disclosure. Nixon could ask anything he wanted, try and pry open her mind to pick it apart in his little game but she wouldn't give him anything. Not when his eyes sparkled like he had told a joke.</p>
<p>Her family wasn't a joke.</p>
<p>"Perhaps we should dedicate ourselves to the task at hand, Captains," Sveta continued, steering the conversation from irrelevant details. "If Market Garden fails we will lose more men than just Randleman."</p>
<p>"Yeah, those old men put up a helluva fight," Welsh said, offering Zhanna a swig of his canteen. She accepted, shuddering as the liquid touched her lips. It was never water and the contents burned down her throat.</p>
<p>"I could get in contact with my resistance pal," Nixon offered. "While we wait for our next orders."</p>
<p>Zhanna wasn't sure how Nixon managed to make allies but there must have been something in his ability to gather information. Was it blackmail or actual alliances he struck? Zhanna didn't want to find out. Winters nodded in agreement to his suggestion, before bidding them all rest.</p>
<p>There wasn't much sleep to be had in that hole in the ground so Zhanna wandered the field, to sit with Skip and Malarkey, whose concern for Bull was more than her own. She didn't tell them about the conversation with Nixon but they told her of Webster and Cobb's group of soldiers who had slipped away. She promised that their departure would be safe with her, knowing that leaving could have meant court-martial. They were trying to chase hope instead of letting it find them. Just as the sky was beginning to lighten and the smoke of Eindhoven started to hang in the air, Zhanna crawled back to Sveta. Welsh was there too, sitting on the lip of the foxhole, smoking a cigarette. He didn't say anything, just nodding as Zhanna approached. Sveta wasn't sleeping, her eyes were struggling to stay open but she focused when Zhanna nudged into place beside her.</p>
<p><em>"Nixon will get more than a dent in his helmet if he keeps asking questions,</em>" Zhanna murmured, in Russian, this time. She would have preferred saving their shared language for private moments, not furthering the divide between Russian and American in front of the officers and enlisted. Welsh was there but his own attention seemed to be on other things, an ocean away.</p>
<p><em>"I'll be happy to see that,</em>" Sveta said, smiling softly.</p>
<p>Zhanna hadn't realized how little they expressed emotion. They didn't laugh together often. They didn't smile between each other, broadly or brightly. Soft displays of emotion that were carefully coordinated. Sveta would smile, dutifully and diplomatically. Zhanna would step back and hide her smile. Skip had taken it upon himself to try and make her laugh, out loud. A feat he had yet to accomplish.</p>
<p><em>"Of course I want them safe,"</em> Zhanna muttered darkly.</p>
<p><em>"Of course you do,"</em> Sveta agreed, though it wasn't clear who she was referring to. Zhanna could have been talking about Bull, the enlisted, or her parents. Even Zhanna didn't know which were occupying her thoughts at the moment. It was all muddled up, the necklace's weight had been distributed to other areas. The journal that was still rippling with the ink and pressed pen marks. The rifle that was cleaner than Zhanna's own conscience.</p>
<p>"I could kill Nixon," Zhanna spat, in English.</p>
<p>Welsh looked up, finally turning back into the conversation taking place in the foxhole below him. She shouldn't have said it, not out loud and not in English. Her position was insecure and they had just laid to rest the rumors of espionage. But Welsh didn't say anything against her sudden outburst, just dipping his head and conceded. "Fair enough."</p>
<p>The sky lightened before Zhanna had closed her eyes, and without a wink of sleep, she hauled herself out of the foxhole and dusted the damp earth from her knees. Sveta by her side, they climbed the steep incline that led to the assembling tanks and transports. The truck beds were already filled with soldiers, the rest of the platoons being called together by their leaders. Zhanna scanned the pockmarked field, watching as Bull, having wandered back sometime in the night or the rescue mission had been successful, gathered his men into a huddle, urging them onto the road and into transports. Hope had won this time, it seemed, no matter how Nixon wanted to paint Zhanna's stance.</p>
<p>"Do you think the medics have any coffee?" Welsh asked. He had emerged from the crowd and looked around for any source of the powdered stuff that every soldier had in their kit. How Welsh had gone through his supply was beyond Zhanna but she offered him the packet of hers, untouched due to her personal preference of pick-me-up. He gave her a smile, the gap in his front teeth plain to see in the morning light. "Thanks Lieutenant."</p>
<p>"My pleasure," Zhanna said.</p>
<p>"Don't suppose we know where we're going?" Sveta asked, looking around at the transports that were now pulling away, their destination still a mystery. Zhanna didn't particularly care for the unknown, staring at a blank map was enough to send her palms sweating.</p>
<p>"Good morning, Dick," Welsh said, as they began to follow the trucks, joined by Winters on their left flank, followed by Nixon, his ever-present shadow. Welsh dumped the contents of the Nescafe packet into his canteen of booze, waving a hand at the smoke heavy sky. "Lovely day,"</p>
<p>"How was your meeting with the Dutch resistance contact?" Zhanna asked of Nixon. "I'm sure you charmed him."</p>
<p>"Van Kooijk says the Germans are concentrating their armor up near Veghel," Nixon said, either ignoring her last words or genuinely not hearing them above the roar of the engines. "We may be heading into some more tanks."</p>
<p>"Well, as long as it's just old men and kids," Winters said.</p>
<p>Zhanna surprised herself by laughing. A sudden bark of mirth that couldn't be hidden by her hand or behind pursed lips.</p>
<p>"Yeah," Nixon said, bitterly. Whether it was Winters's frustration or Zhanna's amusement, his brow was furrowed and his face grim. The moment for joking had passed, and Zhanna recovered herself, the solemn reminder of an unknown road stretching out before her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. ...so it all began...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong> <em>24 September 1940</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>It's been two years since I left home. Sometimes it feels like decades, sometimes it feels like seconds but home never feels far. It isn't, really. My home, with the white curtains and the pressed flowers and the herbs potted by the windows, is in the same city. It's only a walk away. I could go back if I wanted to. But I can't.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No one would be there, if I did. And how could I go back? When we ran away that night?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In some ways, I like to think that the Samsonovs are better than Maria. I can be left alone, I can escape. No one would harm me, with the Samsonovs. I could walk down the street and they know that I am their ward, they know that I am protected. I couldn't do that with Maria. But sometimes I worry. That if Mama and Papa came back, they wouldn't know where to find me. I wouldn't be with Maria, where they left me. I would be here, in this dark red prison.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sveta thinks it's a prison. She pretends she doesn't but I see it. She didn't mind it so much when Veronika was alive. But the only thing left of Veronika is that empty room that neither of us can walk by. I have to run down that corridor, past the room, like I did that day. But I don't stop like I did that day. I don't stop, I can't stop.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That day won't get out of my head. I wake up in a cold sweat with the gunshot still ringing in my ears and the door just there, closed before my eyes, begging me to open it. But I don't. I never did. I let Sveta open that door. I let her go in first when it should have been me. I owed Veronika that and now, I owe Sveta that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's strange, living with someone you owe your life too. Living with a girl who's wrists are tied to yours because of her dead mother's quiet rebellion. She doesn't even know. Sveta doesn't think I'm anything but a friend but I'm so much more than just her friend. Did friends keep friends alive? Did friends owe friends like we do?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sveta would lie and say that she is my friend. And I would lie and say that she is mine. We would both lie and say life pulled us together but that is not true. Stalin brought us together. Stalin and his hatred for Poles. Stalin and his alliance to Sveta's father. I would lie for her and she would lie for me but we don't talk about the lies we tell each other. That everything is fine. That Sveta isn't afraid or burning in anger. That I'm not frozen in my own fear.</em>
</p><p><em>Instead, we keep lying and keep pushing forward. </em>Don't push the river, it will flow by itself. Smile, Sveta. Step back, Zhanna. <em>Smile and keep planning, keep pushing.</em></p><p>
  <em>I had a dream last night, that Mama and Papa were hammering on the big oak front doors of the Samsonov home, begging to take me home. They had found me. They had found me after two years. I ran down the stairs and they held me, so tightly it felt real. We didn't pack, we didn't say goodbye. I didn't even look back. I knew they were taking me home, really home. Back to Poland where my family was. Aunts and uncles who knew me by name and I them, but I didn't know their faces.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We were running down the streets of Stalingrad, hand in hand. Doing what we did best. Running. Polyakovs ran. It's what we did, it's what I still do. Mama and Papa ran from Poland and then they ran back. I ran into the waiting arms of the most powerful family in all of Russia and, now, in this dream and how I wished was reality, was running away again. But they were leaving me again. Their hands slipped through my fingers. I couldn't keep up. And they ran away from me, leaving me behind again. I fell, stumbling, to my knees and when I looked up, they were gone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I could only hope that this would become a reality. That I would really see them again and I would clasp tightly to their hands and never let go again. Never let them leave me behind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes, even when I'm not asleep, I dream that they come back. Or that they took me with them, back to Poland, back to a place that I've only heard of. Back to people I've only heard stories of and read letters from. Aunts and Uncles that I knew by name only but never face or laugh. I only know Stalingrad.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can lie to myself too. That I don't worry, between the dreams, both waking and sleeping. That I don't think they are gone. I hear from Sveta and the servants about the Poles, who were rounded up. The numbers. The lives lost. Mama and Papa could have been stopped, anywhere between the outskirts of the city to the border. They could be dead. I wish that they would have taken me. That no matter what, running or bleeding, we would have done it together.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm tired of being left behind. I'm tired of not being Russian enough for Stalingrad but what if I wasn't Polish enough for my family?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They promised they were coming back for me. They would find me. Mama and Papa would find me. That dream would be a reality. And I would smile, really smile. Zhanna would really smile and the river would keep flowing because it was supposed to happen like I had imagined. Mama, holding me tightly. Papa, his hand on my hair. I wouldn't be cold anymore. We would be together again. That isn't a lie. That isn't a dream. That is my future. That is real. Everything would be okay. Everything was okay. Because we have to follow the path laid out before us.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sveta will smile and I will step back. Like we are meant to. As we always will.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Love, Zhanna</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. ...in the dead of night...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>The disaster of Eindhoven resulted in a tactical retreat and then redeployment. Sveta didn't bother with the specifics. Since leaving England, she'd been getting steadily more irritable. She heard Nixon grumbling about her mood, not knowing why she'd started snapping at every living thing and convinced it was her just going insane. It wasn't insanity. But between the stress of watching Eindhoven collapse under the Nazi flames and the pounding headaches that had become more frequent, she'd had less of a fuse than ever.</p>
<p>Easy found themselves deployed along a stretch of land she'd heard the men referring to as The Island. Cryptic. But accurate, as the main area of resistance came from the river.</p>
<p>They'd reached their positions that morning. In the hustle and bustle of coordinating set up, Sveta had found herself at the farmhouse being used by the officers for Battalion CP. Her watch read 1700 hours. The officers were probably off finding food. The only men in the farmhouse were privates and corporals, most attached to HQ company. Private Vest, the one in charge of all the mail, stood near a door flipping through his mailbag.</p>
<p>Her head ached. It had been two days since she'd last gotten ahold of a drink, and the chills spreading through her body yearned for more. But she was out, and so was Harry.</p>
<p>Fortunately, she knew where to find more.</p>
<p>Nixon kept a constant supply of Vat 69 whiskey in Winters' footlocker. She'd overheard him talking about it in Aldbourne. Winters' footlocker sat on the first floor, in the room to the left of the entrance. She wished she had more time to figure out his schedule, but she didn't have time. She only had pain, and the only medicine would be a drink.</p>
<p>From her spot standing in the kitchen, she could see through the entrance foyer to the living room that held the officers' footlockers. When Vest's footsteps faded, she moved into the room.</p>
<p>Act like you own the place. Rule number one that Sveta had learned was to never look behind. She had to just assume someone was watching. There was no point in acting suspicious by checking the shadows and doorways. She'd gotten a key to his footlocker from one of the privates attached to Sink. It really was far too easy to pull rank and inspire fear in the replacements. They knew nothing of war.</p>
<p>She crouched in front of Winters's footlocker. He kept it in good condition, or as good condition as could be hoped for when it traveled through a war zone. The key slid in easily. Sveta popped up the lid. She kept her ears open for footsteps but heard none.</p>
<p>Six bottles of Vat 69 sat lined up in two neat rows. Winters was nothing if not predictable, really. He kept his footlocker organized, with clothes on the left, letters and other personal effects in the middle, and Nixon's contraband on the right. Her eyes caught sight of a silver chain, a necklace that looked too dainty for the fairly stoic man. Odd.</p>
<p>But her head pounded, and she remembered her mission. Nixon's alcohol. She grabbed one.</p>
<p>Using her knife, she cut the seal. Sveta wasted no time. Before long, she had two canteens full of the whiskey, nearly emptying the bottle. Too little to put back. She pushed some of the letters so they sat neatly where the missing bottle had been, closed the footlocker with a snap, and locked it.</p>
<p>Sveta downed the last of the whiskey straight from the bottle. The alcohol coated her mouth and throat, and in an instant, her anxiety flatlined. Sveta took a breath as she finished the drink. Then she opened her eyes.</p>
<p>She had to get rid of the bottle. Leave no evidence. She stuffed the green glass bottle in her bag and headed out the door. On her way, she passed Harry, sent him a quick nod and ignored his blabbering that made her already aching head spin, and moved off in the direction of Easy's CP.</p>
<p>Half way, she passed a set of baskets and crates used for trash. Sveta dropped the glass bottle in and moved some of the cardboard to conceal it. Again, her anxiety faded. Clouds had started to cover the sky and as she slowed down in her wandering, Sveta wondered if it was going to rain. The air smelled like it.</p>
<p>Taking out her canteen, Sveta took another drink of the Vat 69. Maybe her imagination, but Sveta would've sworn to anyone around that her headache had started to improve already. The tight squeeze at the base of her skull and the stabbing behind her eye kept fading with each step.</p>
<p>After dodging a caravan of supply trucks, Sveta found herself near the CP. Without Compton, Sveta guessed Zhanna would be off with Muck, or maybe Malarkey and Winters. She frowned. Sveta wanted nothing more than to speak Russian. But the one woman who she could share that with had been spending all her time with anyone but her.</p>
<p>She took another drink.</p>
<p>"Captain?"</p>
<p>Sveta turned to the right. It surprised her to find Talbert moving towards her. His helmet sat crooked on his head and at his left, a German dog trotted along. Sveta waited. "Sergeant?" She watched his fidgeting, the way he rocked on his heels and stood a bit back. Something was wrong.</p>
<p>"Uh, Captain. I never got to say this back in Aldbourne," he rambled. "I wanted to thank you."</p>
<p>She couldn't stop the shock from being written all over her face. If Talbert had any ability at all to read body language, he would pick up on it. She shook her head. "Don't thank me."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Who set you up to this?" She couldn't stop the question. She sputtered it out before thinking about it. Instantly, Sveta regretted it.</p>
<p>Talbert's eyebrows raised. "What? No! Jesus, you're both convinced we're terrible. Americans aren't all bad, Captain."</p>
<p>"Talbert, if you recall, the first thing I heard out of your mouth was a demand that I speak English," Sveta snapped.</p>
<p>He clammed up. Mouth a thin line, Talbert broke eye contact and started petting his dog. He didn't respond at first, but before she could move away, he straightened back up. "Look, you don't have to like us, Captain, but you need to know that we don't all hate you. Not anymore. The guys saw what you and Lieutenant Casmirovna did in Normandy."</p>
<p>After a pause, Sveta smirked. "I've heard Casirmovna gets letters from your mother."</p>
<p>His shoulders deflated. But she tried to smile, and he seemed to appreciate the effort. With a small huff of a laugh, he shrugged. "Look. We don't hate you. Not all of us," he amended.</p>
<p>"Duly noted," Sveta told him. "You're a good leader, Talbert. I won't pretend I find Easy the best of company, but I do respect your capabilities."</p>
<p>"Pretty sure that's the closest to a compliment I'm getting, so I'll take it." Talbert grinned. "Thank you, Captain."</p>
<p>"Is the CP shaping up?" she asked.</p>
<p>He shrugged. "It's a barn. But yeah, it works. Have you met Trigger?" Talbert gestured to the dog at his side. It hadn't moved from sitting by his leg.</p>
<p>"No." She looked at it more closely. "Where did you find it?"</p>
<p>"One of the patrols we ambushed had him. Dukeman brought him back," Talbert explained. "He's great."</p>
<p>She flashed him a tight smile. Sveta had never gotten along with dogs. She liked them well enough, but as a young girl, she'd nearly been attacked by a stray while walking with her mother around Moscow. "I'm sure."</p>
<p>As Talbert headed towards the CP not far from them, Sveta decided to follow. She had a duty to check on the men, however much she didn't particularly want to talk. But with the whiskey to soothe her nerves and her headache, she supposed there were worse things. Like talking to Nixon about intelligence.</p>
<p>The barn bustled with activity as she followed Talbert inside. A few of the newer men straightened up into a salute as she passed them, which she returned with a small nod of her head. One had been hanging with Sergeant Guarnere. Private Heffron? He regarded her with quiet suspicion. Sveta turned away.</p>
<p>"Hey, Captain. How's the Battalion CP?" Alley asked. He sat on top of a table in the middle of the room, snacking on a chocolate bar.</p>
<p>She shrugged. "Better than this place," she told him.</p>
<p>Sveta looked around. The beams had rotted in some places, but the loft seemed mostly livable. Indeed, a handful of men had already clambered up there and she could see their packs. It looked like mostly First and Second platoon inside the CP. Sveta figured Third had been deployed along the line already. Careful not to slip on the loose hay, she made towards Peacock near the back.</p>
<p>"Captain." He snapped to attention. "What do you need?"</p>
<p>Sveta nodded back. Looking around, she sighed. "Nothing. Just wanted to see what the conditions were like." Then she turned back to him. "Captain Winters was looking for you earlier. Did you find him?"</p>
<p>"No, ma'am," he sputtered.</p>
<p>"Then go find him."</p>
<p>Peacock nodded and hurried across the barn. Sveta watched him go with a frown. Skittish, poor at navigating, and an idiot. It didn't matter to her one bit that he was kind. At least, that seemed to be what Spina and Roe thought. He was an idiot, and he was going to get them killed.</p>
<p>"Hey, Captain."</p>
<p>She turned right. Luz, Guarnere, Toye, and More sat in a circle playing cards. Luz had called her, and when she made eye contact with him, he stood up and joined her. His brow furrowed.</p>
<p>"Wanna get in on a game?" he asked. Gesturing over to the trio that still played, he tried to explain. "Guarnere's got a shit ton of money. You probably could take quite a bit from him. And some of the Replacements want to play next."</p>
<p>Tempting. She'd never played Guarnere. But then she turned back to Luz. "What's your angle, Luz?"</p>
<p>"Angle? Me?" He grinned around the cigarette he popped into his mouth. "Aw, come on Captain."</p>
<p>"Let me guess, then. You're losing, and you know if you can rope some of the new guys in, then you can bet on me against them." At his meek smile, she shook her head. "You're getting too predictable."</p>
<p>"Oh, come on. It'll be fun."</p>
<p>Sveta scoffed. "No, Sergeant. Not this time."</p>
<p>He shrugged. "Fine."</p>
<p>With practiced nonchalance, Luz moved back towards the circle. The barn continued in its steady chaos. Men came and went, the NCOs seemingly either too busy to stay in one place for long, or too bored to do anything but cards and smokes. She didn't see either Spina or Roe. With a sigh, Sveta glanced at her watch. 1750 hours.</p>
<p>She started to feel the tingling in her hands and warmth in her feet that Sveta knew to be the alcohol finally working. Sveta took another drink. Leaving the men to finish organizing themselves, she left the barn.</p>
<p>The Battalion CP looked remarkably quiet. She supposed that Nixon and Winters were probably both at Regimental, and she knew Harry had headed back to Easy when she passed him along the road. Two of Fox's officers were in the Battalion CP's front room going through their trunks. So she decided to smoke outside.</p>
<p>With the cigarette in her right hand and the alcohol in her left, Sveta relaxed. When she concentrated, Sveta could hear the artillery in the distance. Most of the time she didn't even notice it. Like background noise, the heartbeat of the battlefield, it simply faded away.</p>
<p>She saw Ron walking over before she heard him. With a small smile, Sveta took the cigarette out of her mouth. "Miss me?"</p>
<p>"Why would you think that? I was looking for my CO." But the small smirk that played at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He took out his own cigarette and lit it. "He's the one I report to, not you."</p>
<p>"Yes, but I'm prettier than McMillan."</p>
<p>The words came out before she thought about them. Sveta cursed herself. The alcohol made her less careful. As Ron grinned and agreed with her, she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and forced a deep breath. Focus, Sveta.</p>
<p>She looked around. They weren't alone, and Sveta thanked whatever being that existed for that. She'd had too much to drink.</p>
<p>"You're certainly the prettiest Russian I've met," Ron said.</p>
<p>Her smile dropped. Russia. She missed it. She missed her mother, and the Volga, and the way the snow would fall in winter and she could throw snowballs at the walls of the courtyard. Hot tears filled her eyes, her throat clenching. "I miss Russia." Sveta took another long drink.</p>
<p>"You miss your family?"</p>
<p>One of them. But even as the alcohol filled her body, loosening her tongue, she knew she couldn't speak of that. "I miss the place. It is beautiful country. It's home. This is not home."</p>
<p>Ron nodded. Silence fell between them again. Sveta found herself lost in thought. Confusing images filled her mind. Some were of her trips to Moscow and Leningrad as a child. She recalled visiting Finland, before relations had crumbled. Before the Winter War. She remembered the songs of her people, filling her ears with their beauty. She remembered the glistening snow she so desperately adored.</p>
<p>But she also remembered the blood.</p>
<p>"You're quiet tonight, Svetlana."</p>
<p>She glanced over at him, stumbling a bit at the speed. "Thinking of Russia makes me quiet. And I only have this whiskey," she added, muttering out a curse. Sveta waved the canteen. "I wish for vodka. But there is no vodka here."</p>
<p>He paused. "Are you drunk?"</p>
<p>Sveta scoffed. Waving him off, Sveta took another drink. It warmed her body. It felt so good to have a drink after weeks of rationing it, and a few days with none. The cigarettes had helped. But it hadn't done enough.</p>
<p>It hadn't done enough.</p>
<p>She hadn't done enough.</p>
<p>Not for herself, not for her mom, not for the women near Beria. She'd never done enough. They'd suffered while she'd hidden. Her mother had bled out on a mattress while she'd worked at a letter by soothing candlelight. Maybe with Zhanna she could do enough. She could keep Zhanna away from Beria. She could keep Beria away from Zhanna. As long as Zhanna didn't draw attention to herself, as long as Zhanna could let her play the long game, they would both survive. Maybe.</p>
<p>Equally likely, Sveta would die trying.</p>
<p>Harry's voice, not Ron's, pulled her out of her increasingly distressing thoughts. She looked up, swaying a bit as she tried to focus. Ron and Harry were both scrutinizing her. Had she missed something?</p>
<p>"What?" she snapped.</p>
<p>"You are drunk," Ron said.</p>
<p>Harry looked at Ron, and then back at Sveta. "Thought you were out of your drinks?"</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. "I found more."</p>
<p>"Right. Well, go sleep it off before you do something stupid," Ron told her. "Last thing you need is to piss off Sink or Strayer."</p>
<p>"They're not the ones I'm worried about," Sveta snapped. Beria. Beria was who she was worried about. But the words couldn't form. The name that haunted her every move. She wanted to tell them, wanted to scream, to beg for help. But she couldn't. Her mouth ran dry.</p>
<p>Harry shook his head. "Come on." He touched her shoulder to nudge her inside the CP.</p>
<p>But Sveta drew back at the touch, burned, nearly stumbling. Her mind wouldn't clear. The world spun. She didn't remember drinking too much. But as she went to take another sip, she realized her first canteen was empty. Shit. So much wrong. What if Beria found her?</p>
<p>"Ron, Ron, if you see Russians, tell me," she insisted. "Anyone."</p>
<p>"I'll track down Zhanna and send her to you," Harry assured.</p>
<p>But Sveta shook her head. "Zhanna is safe. I mean others."</p>
<p>They exchanged glances. Why couldn't they understand? Why couldn't they help!</p>
<p>They would never. So she stopped asking. Instead, she just turned and went inside. She had a bedroom on the top floor. Every creak of the wooden steps sounded like broken glass to her ears. The door slammed closed behind her.</p>
<p>Sveta locked it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. ...no turning back...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/>
<p>The enlisted had taken up residence in an abandoned barn, filling their freetime with booze, cards, and relaxation in the wake of the tactical disaster that was Market Garden. Zhanna could have spent her precious free moments at the farmhouse where she laid her head to rest every night but she had taken to drinking the evening away with the others, amongst the prickly hay and the drafty interior of that barn. More than a few lieutenants, including Peacock, made themselves comfortable with the men and Zhanna preferred it there.</p>
<p>Buck's absence had left Zhanna out in the blinding sun, with little support in the American military. They tolerated her, saying that she was alright, "you know, for a Russian." There wasn't trust and that was something Zhanna hadn't realized she needed so desperately until the nearest source of it had been carted away to a field hospital. She missed his camaraderie, his dry humor, and most importantly, the way the men warmed instantly to him. When she had been Buck's little shadow, they had just accepted her as an inevitability.</p>
<p>She was still in Muck and Malarkey's good graces, and she knew she always had a place amongst the mortar squad. They would save her a drink after a long day of avoiding Sveta's irritable outbursts, not to mention, the added difficulty of not being cornered by Nixon, whose curiosity was sure to place him on the wrong side of a rifle barrel.</p>
<p>Winters could be seen, on occasion, brushing shoulders with the enlisted in that barn. His presence and his ease with both Zhanna and the men, calmed the atmosphere. Even Talbert, who spent most of his conversations with Zhanna engaged in a back and forth flurry of insults and sarcasm, was kinder to the sniper when Winters was present. He had slowly begun to warm up to the Russian women but Zhanna enjoyed teasing him too much to let that side of their interactions die with the arrival of his respect. There was the added incentive of his new companion, a large dog who had taken a liking to Talbert upon their arrival to the Island. Unfortunately for Talbert, the dog was devoted to Zhanna since it had laid it's large brown eyes on her.</p>
<p>Perched on the table, knees tucked underneath her, Zhanna watched Winters work on a grenade, tearing off a piece of adhesive from a roll. She wasn't quite sure what he was doing, explosives were not her area of expertise, but there was something comforting in the stillness of the work. His focus and the comfortable silence that enveloped them was enough to relax Zhanna's shoulders more than any amount of vodka could have.</p>
<p>"New guys giving the replacements the what for and why is," Tab scoffed, as if he could never have been guilty of this crime, unwanted advice being his first words shouted to Zhanna back in Benning. "I swear one of them has never shaved,"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Winters agreed. "Kids."</p>
<p>Kids. The replacements were all Zhanna's age, if not older. Twenty-two but she had been aged by what she had seen. Buck had asked how old she was when the fighting started. "I was sixteen when the war began," She had said. But that wasn't the first time she had fought. Survival was found in more places than a battlefield. She supposed that to these paratroopers, the enlisted were children but to Zhanna, they were familiar. Their faces, grim and drawn, had greeted her when she looked in the ornate mirror of the Samsonov residence. Long before the war had broken out.</p>
<p>"This is a hell of a dog, Tab," Luz said. He had grown to tolerate Zhanna at Compton's behest and still allowed her to be in his presence, out of respect for their missing friend. He wasn't half bad, Zhanna discovered, even if the majority of his jokes tended to be at the expense of another.</p>
<p>"Thank you," Tab said, throwing a stray stick towards the open doors, sending the dog chasing after.</p>
<p>"What'd you call it, Tab?" Winters asked, his fingers busy and eyes downcast but he seemed to always be listening.</p>
<p>"Trigger," Talbert said. "Casmirovna's idea."</p>
<p>"That's good," Luz conceded, his mouth full with a K Ration cracker. "I like that. Trigger."</p>
<p>Returning with his prize, Trigger trotted back to their group. Though Tab had his hands outstretched for the stick to repeat the game, Zhanna whistled for the creature, who abandoned Luz and Talbert to rest his head in her hands. She scratched at his jowls, Trigger's eyes closing in pleasure.</p>
<p>Luz shook his head in mock disgust. "First his mother and now his dog. Casmirovna, you have no shame."</p>
<p>Zhanna smiled, smoothing the brown fur of Trigger's spine, muttering sweet nothings in Rusian and Polish, the difference between the two lost on both animal and men. The dog wagged his tail peacefully as their conversation turned from Talbert's losses to the patrol that had been deployed on the dike road.</p>
<p>"Any news?" Tab asked.</p>
<p>"No, all's quiet."</p>
<p>Zhanna had heard the words, "spoke too soon," in a variation of contexts, but none seemed as applicable than in that moment. The doors to the barn burst open, Trigger jerked around, a loud bark sending Zhanna's still sensitive ears pounding, and a man shouted. "We've got penetration." It seemed Winters had spoken too soon, inviting this calamity on them.</p>
<p>"Alley's hurt!"</p>
<p>Winters shot to his feet and began to spit out orders, with a sudden switch from the calm demeanor to the commander that Zhanna was taken aback. Talbert moved to take the wounded soldier, laid him on the table as Doc was called and the location was questioned. It was the crossroads, where the road crossed the dike. A place that Zhanna had seen in daylight on patrols but had never ventured to after dark. Accusations were thrown, Liebgott's ability to stay silent was taken into consideration. Winters shut it all down, shouting for men to get to their feet and platoons were assembled. It was a flurry of activity that left Zhanna's ears ringing and her knuckles gripping the rifle, pale white. Weapons and ammo only. The men knew what they were doing, dashing from the soft yellow lamplight of the barn into the pitch black. But Zhanna hung back, not sure where she should go.</p>
<p>Doc Roe was carrying Alley away on a stretcher, Trigger was sent fleeing into the night. But Zhanna was left, almost alone, in the center of that barn. Her eyes were wide and she felt like she had stumbled into the main room on that cold November night again, blinded in the lamplight and blinking in confusion. Was she supposed to run or remain, frozen to the hay strewn ground?</p>
<p>Winters paused in the doorway, half draped in shadows, and looked back at Zhanna.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant Camsirovna, you're with me." His words, quick, precise, to the point, but sent that wave of familiarity and comfort through her. She nodded, tossing her rifle over her shoulder and ran in his wake, chasing after the platoons.</p>
<p>Her American boots were heavy as they stalked through the grass, the ridge of the embankment casting a shadow over their movements. Their heads bobbed above the shoulder height plants, Zhanna's helmet covered entirely, her only route was following Winters's careful footsteps before her. It was almost silent, her breath impossible loud in her ears, before the still night was cut with the sharp sound of machine guns. They dove against the embankement's damp grass, the only cover for miles.</p>
<p>"MG42," Talbert breathed from behind her. She was wedged between the sergeant and Winters, the butt of her rifle pressing painfully against her thigh.</p>
<p>Winters whispered a soft affirmation.</p>
<p>"What the hell are they shooting at?" Talbert asked, his voice, though whispered, loud in Zhanna's ear. "What's down that road?"</p>
<p>"Regimental headquarters," Hissed back Winters. "But that's three miles away. Why are they giving away their position?"</p>
<p>It was an open ended question, entirely hypothetical, that Zhanna filled in with her own silent reasons. They were cocky. They were careless, or, as Talbert so eloquently put it. "Maybe they aren't as smart as you and me,"</p>
<p>"I think I'll check it out anyway," Winter said. They were so close that Zhanna could feel his heartbeat against her forearm, pressed tight between his back and her side. It was more frantic than one would have guessed with his outward composure. Winters was good at hiding his fear, like good leaders should be.</p>
<p>"Hold here," he told Talbert. "Wait for my signal."</p>
<p>Zhanna would have settled in to wait, eyes fixed on the ridge line for any sign of movement but Winters nudged her and motioned for him to follow her. She did, crawling up the steep embankment, her nails digging into the dirt for a better grip. Her own heart was pounding in her ears, her breath growing ever more ragged with the machine gun fire increasing in frequency as they crested the ridgeline. She slid and landed hard on the other side, twisting her rifle off her shoulder and into her hands. For a few painful heartbeats, they sat motionless, waiting for more fire. When none came, Zhanna followed Winters, hunched down across the road at the top of the dike, before sheltering on the other side.</p>
<p>"What do you see?" Winters asked, as Zhanna brought the rifle to her shoulder and the scope to her eye. His breath was warm on her ear and she tried to slow her own breathing, to lower her heart rate so she wasn't shaking like she was submerged in an icy river.</p>
<p>"Three men," she whispered. "One with the submachine gun and the others are just watching. It's hard to tell how many. There could be a whole battalion on the other side of the dike and I couldn't know."</p>
<p>"Alright," Winters said. "What do we do?"</p>
<p>Was he asking because he didn't know? Or was he asking because he wanted to know what she thought? Zhannna had only ever been teasing when she offered tactical advice and if it was serious, it was just that, advice. Winters knew what to do, or he at least put on a good show.</p>
<p>"Give Talbert the signal," she said. "Then we dig in. Set up mortars. Fire a couple rounds and then call for reinforcements."</p>
<p>Winters nodded. She didn't think he would actually follow her suggested plan of action. To her surprise, he did, right down to the letter.</p>
<p>The men were signaled, darting across the dike like wisps of the night itself. Skidding down the other side, they dug into the ditches and natural irrigation, providing ample cover for their fortifications. Muck, Malarkey and Penkala were dug in at the back, a fallback position was established and then men were set up at staggered points. Zhanna sat at the crest of the dike with a full view of the three men, who still meandered as if they owned the road, laughing and joking in the now familiar sound of German. Guns were readied, final deep inhales were taken, and the first shot was given. Down to the letter, her plan was followed and that sent a shiver down her spine that could only be rivaled by the thrill of the trigger beneath her finger.</p>
<p>As soon as the shots were fired and the Germans recovered from their surprise, Winters pulled back, urging the men back to the safety of the mortars and the ditch. Zhanna watched their figures slip through the darkness out of the corner of her eye, though her full attention was directed to the three men. Quickly, with one, two, three, gentle squeezes of the trigger, Zhanna sent them tumbling down.</p>
<p>"Someone get Casmirovna," Winters shouted. A hand grabbed her ankle and yanked her down the embankment, her chin colliding with the soft dirt, teeth sinking into her tongue, the sharp metallic taste of blood filling her mouth.</p>
<p>She scrambled along the ditch, mortars and rifles firing all around her before flinging herself against the bank beside Winters. He turned to her. "Reinforcements?"</p>
<p>"Reinforcements." She agreed, spitting out a mouthful of blood though he hadn't waited for her response, Winters was already shouting into Luz's radio.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. ...the silence in between...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Her heart pounded. As the briefing ended, Nixon and Strayer dismissing her, Harry, Dog, and Fox company's officers, she tried to calm her anxiety. Zhanna could take care of herself out in the field. Zhanna was a survivor. But the odds weren't in their favor.</p>
<p>When Winters had called for reinforcements, she had just finished a meeting with Sink. Regular updates from the Eastern Front still came to them while they were in the middle of the Netherlands. By the time she'd returned to Easy's CP, Harry had already sent the rest of the troops that Winters had requested.</p>
<p>So she'd joined the rest of the 2nd Battalion officers in Nixon's briefing. With that over, all Sveta had left to do was stress. The dark sky of 0100 hours cleared until stars shined around them as she walked with Harry back to the CP. His shoulders tightened with each step. His stress was palpable.</p>
<p>Sveta took a drink. She didn't have much alcohol left. She'd started rationing it again, unable to get into Nixon's stash, adding in cigarettes instead of sips of whiskey when she could. But she missed the taste of home.</p>
<p>As they approached the barn, Doc Roe's unmistakable voice called her name. Both she and Harry stopped and turned to find him. He made his way over. Sveta saw caked blood on his hands. She supposed he hadn't had time to wash since Alley had been brought in bleeding a couple of hours before.</p>
<p>"Captain, Lieutenant." He paused as they both nodded. "Can I speak to Captain Samsonova for a moment?"</p>
<p>Harry raised an eyebrow in surprise but shrugged. "I'll be inside."</p>
<p>Sveta felt her chest tighten as Harry moved off. When she turned back to Roe, Sveta shuffled. "What do you need?"</p>
<p>"I wanted to check on you," he admitted. Roe sighed, shaking his head. "It would put my mind at ease if I knew you were doing better since that night in August."</p>
<p>They hadn't spoken of it since. Sveta felt her mouth run dry. That day had been a grave mistake, since waking up in the morning all the way to waking up sick the next. Details were still hazy. She knew Zhanna had found her, bringing Compton. At the thought, anger filled her chest. It had to have been Compton. Zhanna knew she didn't trust him. Why couldn't she have gotten Ron? Zhanna knew she liked him.</p>
<p>But after the memories of Zhanna and Compton finding her, it blurred until she'd woken up in a medic station, freezing. She'd been sick for hours. Roe had shoved water down her throat, told her to drink. She couldn't remember if she'd said anything. But when her mind did clear by sunrise, she remembered Roe's careful inspection. Not just with his eyes, but words. She'd begged him through unwanted tears to keep it quiet. Mercifully, he'd agreed to put it down as a stomach illness.</p>
<p>They'd left it at that.</p>
<p>Until now. What had changed?</p>
<p>"Doc, I'm fine," she told him.</p>
<p>He sent her a look she'd never been on the receiving end of. One of abject disappointment. It told her enough; he didn't believe her claim one bit. Sveta cursed herself. She never should've tried to lie to a medic about health.</p>
<p>"Captain, Lieutenant Welsh mentioned you were drunk again the other night," he admitted. When he saw her glare, he added, "He wanted to know if I had anything for a hangover."</p>
<p>Sveta's ears burned. Welsh. Couldn't keep his mouth shut. Or he could, when Nixon poked her with thinly veiled insults. That was entertainment for him. But a slip up in judgement? He couldn't stay silent about that, apparently.</p>
<p>"I misjudged how much I'd had to drink," Sveta tried.</p>
<p>Roe nodded. "Captain, what happened in Aldbourne? Lieutenant Casmirovna wouldn't say more than you'd had a bad day."</p>
<p>At least Zhanna had kept the reasons to herself. But then, what she had said hadn't been false either. A bad day. Sveta wondered how many bad days she had left.</p>
<p>"Look, Doc, I'm fine," she insisted. Again, his frown. She sighed. Looking around, Sveta wondered if she could say more. If she should say more. A fear-induced lapse in judgement in Mackall meant Harry, Nixon, and Winters already knew about her mother and Stalin. If they wanted to spread it, they could. So she turned back to Roe. "Okay, maybe, sometimes I drink too much," Sveta admitted. "Back in Aldbourne, I couldn't stop thinking about something that happened in Russia, back in 1940. So I grabbed the vodka."</p>
<p>Roe watched her carefully. He nodded. "Were you tryin' to kill yourself, Captain?"</p>
<p>She stopped breathing. The question had passed her own mind many times. Sveta still didn't have an answer.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't want to kill herself. She wanted to die in battle, for her people and the Motherland. She wanted the bullet that found her to be from a German rifle or submachine gun, not an American sidearm. Not a Korovin pistol.</p>
<p>She did not want to be the third woman to die because of Stalin. That scared her more than anything. If she did survive the war, she'd go back to Russia. If she went back to Russia, she'd go back to Stalin and Beria and her father. And then there would only be two options for death: the bottle or the pistol. She didn't want to choose either.</p>
<p>She wanted to die in the chaos of battle, not in a quiet bedroom.</p>
<p>"Captain?"</p>
<p>She glanced up at him. Sveta forced away the thoughts. "No. I wasn't." That had to be the answer. It was the answer. Or, she hoped it was the answer. Regardless, she could never say yes to the medic. He might've done something stupid, like pulled her off the line and pushed her right back into Beria's waiting hands. "I just got carried away."</p>
<p>He nodded. "Okay. Well, uh, if you need somethin'. Me and Spina could help," he offered. "Maybe. Even if you just need a break off the line, or somethin'. Long as you don't mind blood, the medics can always use help. You're good with the medic stuff."</p>
<p>She smiled before she knew what she was doing. Roe and Spina really were too kind. If the American army had done one good thing, it was selecting them for the medics. "Thank you. Never underestimate the power that you hold, Roe. There aren't many men or women who can do what you do as a medic." She paused. "You and Spina both are a tribute to your people."</p>
<p>Roe didn't seem to know what to say. "We're just doing our jobs, Captain."</p>
<p>"I know." Sveta smiled again. "Now, how's Alley?"</p>
<p>With a sigh, Roe rubbed his hands on his pants. Sveta wasn't even sure he knew that he'd done so, but the man then shuffled in place and looked at her. "Not great. I took him to the main aid station and had the surgeons take a look. They said he'll be off to a hospital soon as they stabilize him."</p>
<p>She nodded. "Alley's a fighter. He'll be fine."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I know," he agreed. But his face fell. He hunched over, typical she'd noticed of the man when he got stressed.</p>
<p>"I should go see if Lieutenant Welsh needs me," Sveta told him. With a last quick look at the obviously overwhelmed medic, she added, "The CP is a better place to wait than the aid station, Doc."</p>
<p>He nodded. "Right."</p>
<p>Sveta offered him a tight smile. In her opinion, the medics saw worse than any other man on the battlefield. The others just had to take life. They had to save it. And unfortunately for them, bullets and grenades had more power to end life than they did to stop it. Men died in war. Nothing held more true across all nations and times.</p>
<p>Medics could not save everyone. Sveta just hoped whatever bullet found her would come on the battlefield. Then she'd bleed out as a hero, not a victim.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. ...in my father's name...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>The sun had risen, basking their positions in a watery light. The fighting hadn't stopped with the call for reinforcements. They lost Dukeman in the pandemonium that followed their initial assault, in the moments before the crashing heartbeat of the battle had died down to a nonexistent beat. Winters had ordered the men to stay low, waiting for the rest of First Platoon and the additional machine gunners to arrive at their positions. The sun had made it's weak attempt to break through the heavy bank of clouds but had admitted defeat, the previous night's light drizzle leaving Zhanna's many layers uncomfortably damp. She shivered, though it was more from residual adrenaline than actual fear.</p><p>She had followed Winters beyond the line, to peer through scope and binoculars, trying to pinpoint the location of the German forces. In the end, their eyes could give little aid and they had to rely on the small square of printed map that Winters produced from his pocket.</p><p>"I never asked," Zhanna murmured, breaching the battle plan with a more innocent question. "How are things with your penpal? Estelle, her name was?"</p><p>"I took your suggestion and responded," Winters breathed. "As of our last letter, we're still on good terms."</p><p>"That's encouraging," Zhanna said, rubbing a smudge of dirt off her rifle barrel.</p><p>"Lieutenant," Winters said. "I think we should focus on the task at hand,"</p><p>"Of course," She said, though she caught the briefest pause in his words, as if he had started to call her "Zhanna" but thought better of it. She would have continued down this path, emboldened by the battle and the rifle in her hands but Talbert's shuffling movements behind them cast any thought of continued conversation out of her mind.</p><p>"The balance of First Platoon is here," Talbert said, his breathing heavy. "Gordon and More brough another .30 cal."</p><p>"Sir?" Zhanna pressed, when Winters didn't show any signs of hearing Tab, just increased focus on the hidden line of Germans.</p><p>"They are behind a solid roadway embankment," He whispered. "And we are in a ditch. They can outflank us on the dike and catch us out here as soon as they figure that out."</p><p>"So how many krauts are we talking about?" Talbert asked, as if the number could be easily tallied.</p><p>Zhanna winced at the derogatory nickname that the soldiers assigned the Germans. She knew that they were the enemy but she had been given too many names to count. It reminded her that Easy had come to accept her but they could just as easily turn from her again, without Buck's charisma to keep them in line.</p><p>"Well there's a ferry crossing," Winters said, jabbing a finger at the map, which Zhanna plucked from his hands to inspect closer. These men would be running through mud and irrigation but Zhanna needed to find a place to perch, to watch and to shoot. "So it could be a whole battalion, as far as I know."</p><p>"Okay," Tab said, taking in all he had said and the landscape before him. "What are your orders?"</p><p>Orders. That's what had gotten Zhanna into this mess. Winters knew how she felt about orders. She folded up the map, and returned it to him, watching as it was tucked into his front pocket, stashed away with a glitter of silver against the dark cloth. His dog tags, Zhanna suspected, kept close for identification. Buck had said they would make sure you got back to your family in one piece. Zhanna's family didn't know where she was. If she died out here, she would be better off just buried in the battlefield.</p><p>"We've got no choice," Winters grimaced, jerking his head to motion them back to the ditch. In hushed tones amongst the other men, he gave the orders. Orders that Zhanna carefully noted, so that she would know when to depart from them. "Talbert, you take ten men along the dike." Tab nodded, taking a swig of his canteen before passing it to Peacock, who was instructed to take ten men along the left flank. "I'll take ten up the middle, so follow me. Casmirovna-"</p><p>All eyes turned to Zhanna, where she sat, quietly, watching the dividing of men. "I'll take the rear," she said. "Watch your back?"</p><p>Winters nodded, giving a tightlipped smile. "That'll do fine." Looking around at the men, he asked. "Questions?"</p><p>None were offered. No one dared.</p><p>"Go," and they broke apart, like a wave upon the shore.</p><p>Zhanna fell back to the Mortar position, sliding into place beside Skip and Malarkey, knocking Penkala over.</p><p>"Jesus christ," he hissed. "Watch where you're going!"</p><p>"Sorry," Zhanna winced but Muck waved away her apology, the pain of a crushed arm not his own.</p><p>"What's the plan?"</p><p>"Three different positions. Mortar fire to suppress. Wait for the signal," Zhanna said. Her voice was shaking, why did it tremble like she was afraid?</p><p>"What's the signal?" Malarkey asked.</p><p>"We'll know when we see it," Zhanna said. It was strange to be the lieutenant assigned to the mortar squad. It should have been Buck, who would be joking with the men, setting them at ease. But Zhanna couldn't pretend that she wasn't nervous. It wasn't a crippling fear but the pressure of an impending battle. An anxiety that she might not walk away from this one.</p><p>There were several painful breaths between the troops preparing and the lone figure of Winters darting out from the safety of the ditch, dashing across the field with no one by his side.</p><p>Why was no one following him? Zhanna looked around frantically, wanting to shout at Talbert to go after him, to run. Their leader was running ahead and they watched, dumbstruck, as he barreled towards the enemy line. She couldn't draw a breath, not until the signal had shown itself. What was the signal anyway?</p><p>One, two, three, four, no, five breathless heartbeats later, the field exploded in a cloud of crimson smoke and finally, blessedly, the line advanced. Zhanna could have shouted in jubilation but instead, put the scope of her rifle to her eye, and watched the line push further and further through the smoke.</p><p>They ran through the green grass, clouded in the blood red smoke, and dove for cover on the partitioning roadway to begin firing upon their enemies. The machine gunners dug in, the incessant patter of their rounds beat down on Zhanna's already pounding head but she didn't mind the pain, barely noticing it. Her eyes fixed on the ridge of the dike, where more Germans flooded over the crest, like ants emerging from a nest.</p><p>"Shit! There's a whole other company," She kicked Muck, shouting. "Mortars! Now! NOW!"</p><p>Before they could fire their first round, the ground shook in line of explosions in rapid succession. Zhanna couldn't move, her jaw set tight to keep her teeth from rattling, and buried tight against Skip, trying to stop the shaking. In the field, she could barely hear the soft cries of warning as the rounds began again. Stalingrad had turned to rubble and Zhanna was afraid she would too, if this didn't stop soon.</p><p>"Take cover! German artillery!"</p><p>"No shit!" Zhanna spat, trying to push herself upright but Malarkey's arm barred her.</p><p>"I've never heard you swear before!" Skip shouted back.</p><p>Zhanna refused to let this position be her final resting place. They had to keep moving. She had promised Winters that she would watch his back. How could she accomplish that from back here? Zhanna took her promises very seriously, each one was a debt to be repaid. She had let herself slip back, falling into the comfort of the shadows. Winters needed someone to step forward. She had said she would watch his back.</p><p>"We have to push forward!" Zhanna said, throwing off Malarkey's arm and grabbing her rifle. "We are no good back here!"</p><p>"Go out there? Are you nuts?" He glanced around at the dirt and fragments still spraying hundreds of meters into the air.</p><p>"Just do it!" Zhanna shouted. "That's an order, Muck!"</p><p>They uprooted their position with some reluctance but Zhanna never gave up on them, pushing ahead through the smoke and dirt before falling to her knees. As the men stamped the baseplate into the ground, the bipod piercing the soft dirt, Zhanna fell onto her stomach, and raised her rifle to her shoulder, resting the familiar weight into place. Her left shoulder, still tender, ached. Whether it was a warning or the strain under the rifle's weight, Zhanna didn't particularly mind it. She let the dull ache ground her, as she watched the men still flood over the side while the Americans cowered in the shadow of the dike.</p><p>Zhanna had pushed forward. She was out in the open, blinking in the weak sunlight. There was nowhere to hide so Zhanna had to make the first attack. Nowhere to step back, not when Winters, Tab, and Luz were out in the open as they were now.</p><p>The mortars were deployed before Zhanna even asked and she relaxed, knowing that Muck, Malarkey, and Penkala could see that following these orders were in their best interest. She didn't think beyond the pull of her finger on the trigger, she didn't let her mind wander to the battles she had fought, to the red aura of the Samsonov home that hung around her even now. She didn't allow herself to wander back to that flash of silver among the mud, where she had seen her mother fall.</p><p>Barring all these thoughts from her mind, the next few moments flew by. Long after the mortars had stopped firing and the ground had stopped quaking, Zhanna's body continued to tremble. Shaking, she found a place to rest beside a crater of one of the shell blasts, watching medics gather the wounded and Martin round up the prisoners.</p><p>"'Scuse us, Casmirovna," Martin said, pushing the eleven remaining SS soldiers into the crater.</p><p>Her vacant eyes glanced over the men, their faces smudged and clothes caked with mud. She found herself focused on one, who's blonde hair peaked under his helmet. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the layer of mud to discern a familiar feature that had caught her eye. A sharp nose and round face.</p><p>"Casmirovna?" The one she studied, beneath all that dirt and grime, couldn't have been much older than herself.</p><p>"Hey, shut up," Talbert knocked the prisoner's helmet off, the shock of blonde hair blinding in the weak light. "These Krauts want us to think they are Polish, Cas, can you believe it? "</p><p>"<em>My father's name,</em>" Zhanna said, taking a leap of faith and switching to Polish. "<em>Casimir Polyakov.</em>"</p><p>It could have been nothing. A lie, like Talbert and Martin thought, but Zhanna wanted someone to speak her native tongue, someone who might know who she was or where she came from. The soldier, his face still familiar and his hair just a shade darker than her own, continued.</p><p>"<em>Agata? Your mother is Agata?"</em></p><p>"<em>Yes,"</em> Zhanna' heart started to pound now. Did this soldier know her family? "<em>Do you know her?"</em></p><p>"<em>She is my aunt. I am your cousin, Janusz Sadlowski,"</em> he said. "<em>My god, you look just like her. We've heard so much about you, Zhanna!"</em></p><p>"<em>You...You are my mother's family?"</em></p><p>"<em>Yes! They came to shelter with my mother, Francezka, in Vawkarysk, in 1938."</em></p><p>Tears sprang into her eyes. They had made it. Agata and Casimir had made it safely.</p><p>"<em>Are they alright?</em>" Zhanna asked. "<em>They never came back for me."</em></p><p>She tried not to sound bitter, when she should be grateful. Her parents had been safe while she had hoped for their safety. Ignoring Martin and Talbert's furrowed brows and visible confusion at this sudden connection between prisoner and sniper, Zhanna turned hopefully to her cousin, who's face she had only ever seen in outdated photographs that had made the journey from Poland to Russia. Perhaps, if she was lucky, that hope would carry them through the war, to be reunited.</p><p>"<em>Zhanna,"</em> Janusz's voice told her before his words did. "<em>The Germans occupied Vawkavysk in 1941. I was conscripted, so were my brothers. Uncle Jakub and Aunt Agata were trapped in the ghettos."</em></p><p><em>"Trapped."</em> Her voice was weak and she wasn't sure if it was English or Polish she had spoken. She had been trapped, by guilt and debt. All because she had been left on the threshold of a veritable stranger so her parents could run.</p><p>"Zhanna."</p><p>
  <em>Perelko.</em>
</p><p>"Zhanna."</p><p>
  <em>Polyakova.</em>
</p><p>"Zhanna!"</p><p>Her head snapped up. She didn't want him to say it. Janusz, who had been privy to this secret since 1941. Janusz hadn't lived in hope and fear for six years.</p><p>"<em>They are dead."</em></p><p>It wasn't a question.</p><p>"<em>Yes."</em></p><p>She didn't want the answer.</p><p>The air should have been still, a heavy silence that always perpetuated the moments after a battle but Liebgott still fired his weapon, releasing some of the anger that always burned beneath his skin. Zhanna wished she could do the same but there was no burning, no anger, no temper to lose. Despite her many layers, her fingers started to go numb and her flesh tingled as frost spread across her limbs.</p><p><em>Okay,</em> Zhanna thought. That was the only thing her brain could conjure up, the alchemic formula of nearly two decades of practice and behavior modeled. Okay. She was okay. Things were okay. Even if she couldn't formulate what "things" were. Even if she didn't know what was happening, which she didn't. Agata and Casimir had always told her she was okay, they were okay. So, surely, here Zhanna was okay too.</p><p>Hauling herself out of the hole in the ground, she ignored Janusz Polish pleadings and the American's confusion. She marched straight up to Winters, the only thing she could think to do was tell herself everything was alright and to get out of this damn field.</p><p>"Sir," she said. Her voice sounded strained, as if a fist was closing tight around it. "Permission to take the prisoners back to Battalion CP?"</p><p>He studied her, eyes staring deep into her own but Zhanna had learned to follow Sveta's example and hide it all. She only hoped that her meager amount of practice had paid off and he couldn't see through it.</p><p>"Granted." His words were muffled by another round of needless shots fired by Joe Liebgott. "Hold that thought."</p><p>Zhanna didn't pay attention to the discourse between Winters and Liebgott; it didn't really matter. She had to get the scrap of family she had back to CP so she could find Sveta and negotiate some kind of arrangement for Janusz's safety.</p><p>"I want you to take these prisoners to Battalion CP with Casmirovna, and get yourself cleaned up," Winters instructed.</p><p>'Yes sir," Liebgott said. "Come on, Kraut boys,"</p><p><em>Janusz wasn't German</em>, Zhanna thought with a flash of heat slowly beginning to thaw her body. She didn't like his full magazine or the gleam in his eye. Winters caught on before Zhanna had a chance to say a word.</p><p>"Joe," He said. "Drop your ammo!"</p><p>"What? Are you kidding?"</p><p>"Drop your ammo," Winters persisted. "You have one round," he said. "Johnny, how many prisoners do we have?"</p><p>"We've got eleven prisoners right now, sir."</p><p>Zhanna knew that if Liebgott shot one prisoner, she wouldn't do anything to stop the rest jumping him. She might even encourage it.</p><p>Zhanna hung back, offering Janusz a hand as he stumbled. Murmuring a soft word in Polish, she looked up, to meet Liebgott's eyes. Pure flame rivaled only by Sveta. She pushed forward, to lead the group with Liebgott, who hissed low enough for Zhanna to hear.</p><p>"You speak German now?" he said.</p><p>"What?" Zhanna's confusion was genuine. Did Liebgott not recognize that she wasn't speaking German or did he just not care?</p><p>"Flirting with a coupla POWs," Liebgott snorted. "Russian whore."</p><p>A flash of heat flushed through her body, thawing her hand in time for her fist to collide with his jaw without shattering. She had been waiting to return the favor for the bruise on the Samaria he'd been a part of and nothing gave her a flush of pride quite like hearing her Polish family laughing at the American who had made her an outcast once again.</p><p>"Casmirovna!" Winters shouted, his voice barely raised but his tone was rebuking. "Cool it!"</p><p>"Yes sir," Zhanna said, the ice returning to her fingers as Liebgott's hand went to his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Shall I call Doc Roe for you, Liebgott?"</p><p>For her moment of payback, she had paid the price. Zhanna watched Liebgott walk away, Janusz in toe, while her orders had changed. Winters hadn't told her she was wrong, nor did he seem to know what had been said. He didn't make a motion for her to follow him but Zhanna did anyway. Letting someone else chart her course was the only thing keeping her mind blank and numb. If she started to wonder where she would go, Zhanna's mind fell onto darker things. She needed to make sure that Janusz was taken care of, maybe arranged to be sent back to England.</p><p>While Winters darted back and forth, doing whatever the captains did post battle, Zhanna just wondered what she was supposed to do now. She was okay, that much she knew. But where was she going? No, no, best not think about that now. Staying numb and blank was the only thing keeping the tears firmly behind her eyes.</p><p>Transports had arrived to take the soldiers away but Zhanna didn't go. Neither did Winters. They sat, on the embankment, in silence. They didn't look at each other, neither made a move to speak. It was a silent solidarity between them, both working through or covering up that day's tragedy in their own way. Zhanna didn't want to think and it seemed, neither did Winters.</p><p>"22 wounded, huh?" Nixon's voice cut through the silence. Zhanna would have grimaced or flinched but she didn't think she could move. "You okay?"</p><p>"Yeah." Winters' voice was rough. "One killed."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Dukeman."</p><p>They didn't know that more than one had died that day. Six years of hoping and it had all come crashing down.</p><p>"Dukeman," Nixon repeated, crouching beside them. "Well you're looking at two full companies of SS out there. About 50 dead, another hundred wounded. Seven back in the regimental cage. That's not bad for Dukeman."</p><p>This man, the one who had tried to shame Zhanna for only praying for Bull's safety, was trying to justify one man's death. Survival was a messy game and life wasn't always fair in it's trades. When Nixon wasn't trying to solve people like puzzles, it seemed Zhanna could understand what he stood by.</p><p>"Liebgott's nose is broken but we've got the prisoners in the system. Regimental will figure out what to do with them."</p><p>"There is one," Zhanna said, breaking the silence. "Janusz Sadlowski,"</p><p>"What about him?" Nixon asked. He wouldn't know names but maybe he would be able to track him down, find a way to keep Janusz in one place until Sveta could throw her Samsonov weight.</p><p>"He is a Pole, not a German. My cousin," Zhanna's breath was short and gasping as she allowed a piece of information slip.</p><p>"They've likely already been processed and are looking at transfer to a long term camp," Nixon said. "I'm sorry, Zhanna, but there isn't much we can do."</p><p>Sorry. He did sound sorry. For that, Zhanna could at least respect him in the moment. He was still an asshole but he at least pretended.</p><p>"You got a drink?" Winters asked. Even in her numbness, Zhanna couldn't help but look aghast. "Of water," he amended.</p><p>Nixon nodded. "Yeah." He reached for the canteen that hung from his belt, unscrewing the lid to give it a sniff. "Yeah it's water."</p><p>"Shame," Zhnana said. "I could have used something stronger."</p><p>She accepted it though, when Winters passed it to her, as she did the question that Nixon posed.</p><p>"Cousin, huh? Mother or father's side?"</p><p>"Mother's,"</p><p>"You two were close?" Nixon asked. It was an innocent question this time, no conniving information to be gathered.</p><p>"No," Zhanna said. "No, we aren't."</p><p>She stood up, followed by Winters and they looked over the field together, as if wishing it farewell. Zhanna said goodbye to her six year long dream, the feeling of her parents' hands in her own. Whatever Winters was laying to rest seemed just as painful.</p><p>"Okay?" Nixon asked.</p><p>To either of them, or to one of them. Zhanna didn't answer, and neither did Winters. The only sound between the three of them, as they marched back to the transports, was the scuffing of boots and the rasp of leather. If Zhanna's tears were visible or her gasping breaths heard, neither man paid them any notice and for that she was grateful.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. ...to separate the lies from truth...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>In war, men moved around like pieces on a chessboard. Sveta was no stranger to chess, having been a pawn for as long as she could remember. First for the Soviets, then for the Americans. Sobel had been a king, and then he'd lost. Meehan had gotten to be a king after that, but he'd died on D-Day. They'd gotten Winters in his place, and Sveta had to admit that he had certainly earned the right to her respect.</p>
<p>But Winters had won the game, and been promoted. Or lost, if the way he often paced in the upstairs room of the Battalion CP and glared at his typewriter was any indication.</p>
<p>Easy had a new King. Lieutenant Moose Heyliger. Sveta watched from the wall of the Battalion CP as he chatted with a smile between Winters and Nixon within earshot. She remembered him. He'd been her first platoon leader back at Benning. He'd been pleasant enough, and when he'd gotten the nod to Easy's CO the day before, he'd shaken her hand and smiled, and even mentioned Benning.</p>
<p>He'd said he was glad to see her. Glad she'd gotten the nod to Captain. Glad she'd been there on D-Day to help Winters with Brécourt Manor. And Sveta thought he was telling the truth.</p>
<p>Sveta took another drag of her cigarette. Things had been quiet since the attack at the crossroads. Well, quieter. Her brow furrowed, thinking about it. Thinking about the way Zhanna had gone silent for days.</p>
<p>Well, except for punching Liebgott so hard he'd had a bloody nose for half an hour. She gripped her left hand into a fist. Except, apparently, for telling Lewis Nixon about her cousin who had been conscripted into the SS and stolen away to a prison camp. She'd not come to Sveta. She'd not let her know that her family had been forced into service for the Germans. She'd not let her know, to help her process, to offer support.</p>
<p>She'd told Lewis Nixon.</p>
<p>Sveta felt tears stinging her eyes. Her throat started to hurt and she dropped the half-finished cigarette to the ground. With a harsh stomp and turn of her heel, she put out the flames so only the smoke remained.</p>
<p>Zhanna had told the one man they both knew wanted to solve the Russian puzzle. Not her friend, not her comrade in arms for more than three years. But him.</p>
<p>"You look fucking pissed."</p>
<p>Harry. Sveta looked up to find him standing at the door. He'd just left the Battalion CP, an unscrewed canteen in his hands. She straightened up. "I think most people would say that's normal, Harry."</p>
<p>He laughed. "Whatever. You're not angry all the time. Just, a lot of the time. Usually it has a target." Standing next to her in the shade, he gestured to the three other officers. "Let me guess." He paused, pretending to think. "Nixon?"</p>
<p>"Not this time." But she wouldn't say more, and changed the subject. "Hopefully Heyliger is good for Easy."</p>
<p>Harry agreed with her. "From what I heard, he's got a solid head on his shoulders. The men seemed to like him. And Dick speaks highly of him, when he's not freaking out upstairs."</p>
<p>Sveta broke into a grin. She couldn't help but chuckle at his estimation. It was true. She was glad that he at least stopped work most nights by midnight. If she'd had to deal with his pacing while trying to sleep in the next room over, Sveta may have had to ask Zhanna to shoot him.</p>
<p>Not that she would. She liked him, liked both Winters and Nixon, apparently. It worried her. How trusting was Zhanna these days? If she let slip something that somehow got back to Beria that made him interested in her, however unlikely out here on the front lines, there was nothing Sveta could do. If Beria learned Alexander Samsonov had sheltered a Pole, he would likely use it as some sort of proof of disloyalty to Stalin. Proof of weakness.</p>
<p>Then none of them would be safe.</p>
<p>Sveta looked at Harry. He had gotten out a cigarette, and struggled to light it. His zippo lighter wouldn't catch. She reached out and lit it with hers. "Here."</p>
<p>"Thanks. Fucking thing."</p>
<p>"Ron might have an extra. He collects them," she told him. "It's worth asking."</p>
<p>Harry laughed at her. "Do me a favor. You ask. He likes you."</p>
<p>She felt heat flush to her cheeks. Sveta was glad she rarely blushed. There was no benefit to letting Harry know about her emotions going haywire near Ron. "How's Liebgott's face?"</p>
<p>"Very bruised." Harry smirked. He turned to her. "Any idea why Casmirovna punched him?"</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. Her fists tightened again. She tried to relax. There had to be a reason why Zhanna hadn't trusted her enough to explain. There had to be a reason she had trusted Nixon.</p>
<p>She couldn't see one though.</p>
<p>"Casmirovna doesn't do anything without a reason," Sveta told him. "Don't ever doubt that, Harry."</p>
<p>Sveta watched as Winters, Nixon, and Heyliger parted ways. Heyliger moved off in the direction of Easy's CP, and the other two turned back to Harry and Sveta. She didn't have much to say to them, as they'd just finished a briefing before coming outside. So she told them she was taking a walk.</p>
<p>She hadn't gone on more than a few minutes before the grey clouds that covered the sky decided to open up. She hurried down the path to Easy's CP and burst open the side door of the barn. A few men turned her way. Liebgott's swollen face made her want to laugh. But she kept her mirth in check and moved to the corner of the barn instead to catch her breath. A roll of thunder made her jump.</p>
<p>Memories of Stalingrad came to mind. She forced them away. Sveta didn't want to think about her mother. Though she felt a bit guilty to admit it.</p>
<p>"Get caught out in the rain, Captain?" Heyliger asked. He turned to look from where he'd been chatting with Talbert and Lipton. They followed his gaze. "Seemed to come outta nowhere."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded, trying to wipe the water from her face. "Can't say I appreciate it."</p>
<p>At least here she was dry. Surrounded by men who tolerated her, chatting with an officer who respected her. Even with the thunder reverberating around them, reminding her of that night when the lightning had cut across her bedroom just like the sound of the bullet through the silence between thunderclaps. She didn't want to think about Stalingrad.</p>
<p>But then Zhanna walked in. Soaked to the bone, flanked by Malarkey, Penkala, and Muck, a tiny, forced smile on her face, she pulled Sveta back to Stalingrad. Liebgott watched her with a fierce glare. Sveta just watched her for any sign of the friend she had known. Masks couldn't fool her. She knew Zhanna had one on. A mask to hide what, though? Pain, anger, hurt? All of them?</p>
<p>Was her mask for Sveta? or for the men. Or for all of them? Sveta couldn't tell that, not anymore. She and Zhanna had been separated for one reason or another since Fort Benning, but never had Sveta felt so cut off from her as there, in the crowded barn while rain pounded against the wood and dripped through the roof. And that chasm, it brought back Stalingrad too. Another country, another year, another rainstorm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. ...I question who I am...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sveta looked at Winters. He sat at his desk in the upper room of the CP. In his hands a pencil flicked up and down, nervous energy searching for an escape from the man who usually managed to bottle up so much. Losing his command had done a number on the usually quiet man. She could see the frustration itching to get out.</p>
<p>"Moose is in charge, but I want you on Pegasus."</p>
<p>Suppressing a sigh, she just nodded. It was to be expected. Heyliger was the CO, regardless of her outranking him. But it confused her, why she was being sent. "My purpose for going?"</p>
<p>"We have reports of a few Russians being involved," he tried to explain.</p>
<p>Sveta's eyebrows raised. Russians? In the Netherlands? With a nod, she asked him to explain. "What are the Soviets doing here?"</p>
<p>"I don't know." Winters got up, tossing his pencil back onto this desk, and rounded it to the front. He crossed his arms. "Sink doesn't have any more information. All we know is three Russians are stuck with the British and some of the Resistance. I want you to go along to make sure things proceed smoothly."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "Of course." But she could almost feel the fear creeping up. What if they knew who she was? Desperately trying to suppress her anxiety, she put her arms behind her back, grasping her left wrist to stop the fidgeting. "When do we leave?"</p>
<p>"They're leaving in a little over an hour. This was last minute information," he said. After a sigh, he looked out the window. "Do you know how to use a boat?"</p>
<p>"Yes. It won't be an issue."</p>
<p>Winters nodded again. He seemed to do that a lot when anxious. Small nods, in quick succession. She wondered if it was only fear for Easy, or if he was thinking of Zhanna no longer being in his direct command. She couldn't tell if it was more than friendship. But sometimes she wondered at the way he would ask after her. Then again, he asked after all his former officers and enlisted men.</p>
<p>"Is Casmirovna going?" Sveta asked. "Or is she staying behind."</p>
<p>"I have her on lookout along with a handful of the best riflemen from Dog and Fox," he told her. "They'll be posted along the bank as backup."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded again. Operation Pegasus had a solid plan. She wondered whose it was: Nixon's, Winters', or someone else. Nixon had a good mind for tactics.</p>
<p>"I'll go find Lieutenant Heyliger, then," Sveta told him. "Harry's going too?"</p>
<p>"Harry's going," he confirmed. "Peacock will be on the shore with two machine gunners in case they need suppressing fire in retreat."</p>
<p>Smart. Peacock would probably screw the whole thing up if he went in for stealth. She left Winters' makeshift office just as Nixon walked up. They exchanged quick nods. As she walked out into the night, Sveta took a deep breath. They had cloud cover which would aid their mission. A bright moon could glint off any uncovered metals like dog tags or rifle muzzles.</p>
<p>"You coming with us, Captain?"</p>
<p>Sveta glanced over where Spina carried a basket of supplies and headed her way. She smiled and nodded. "Apparently. Seems there are a few Russians across the way."</p>
<p>"No shit?" He joined her and they walked towards Easy's CP. She wanted to speak to Heyliger. Evidently Spina was headed there, too. "Sergeant Talbert's still sad over having to ditch his dog. Got any more Hershey bars? Word on the street is you've got a few."</p>
<p>Sveta chuckled as they walked. But she nodded. "Yeah I've got a few. But if I give you one, you can't tell Talbert that it came from me." She glanced at him and smiled at the way he brow furrowed. "I have an image to maintain, Spina. Can't have them thinking I'm going soft."</p>
<p>"You? Soft?" He laughed. "That'll be the day. No offense," he added. "I'll say it came from Captain Winters. He'd believe that."</p>
<p>"Or Roe." She smiled. "He always seems to have an extra one these days."</p>
<p>Spina huffed out a small chuckle. She didn't have the chocolate bar on her, but she promised to get it to him after the mission. As they approached the large farmhouse that Easy still used as a CP, she let herself relax a bit. Second Platoon still held the line, bolstered by Dog and Fox companies. First and Third stood inside.</p>
<p>She found Heyliger, Peacock, and Harry standing in a corner. A map sat in front of them on a small table, the overhead lanterns casting barely enough light in their secluded location. She nodded to them. "Winters wants me to accompany you," she said. "Apparently there are a few Russians with the British."</p>
<p>Heyliger nodded. "You can use a boat?"</p>
<p>"I'll be fine," she said, nodding. "How many minutes until we head out?"</p>
<p>"Not long." He glanced at his watch, tilting it to catch as much light as possible. "We've got 43 minutes until I want to be on the bank."</p>
<p>That didn't leave long at all. She supposed the subdued atmosphere of the CP made sense. Men sat or stood around mostly in silence. If they spoke at all their voices remained hushed. Most of their focus seemed to be on wrapping their equipment in dark tape or enjoying a few last minute cigarettes.</p>
<p>"Harry's taking care of the security on the far bank," Heyliger continued. When Harry nodded, he turned to Peacock. "You're in charge of our shore."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>"Captain, you'll accompany me and Colonel Dobie."</p>
<p>She nodded. "Right."</p>
<p>Before long, Heyliger had the men line up outside the barn. She could feel the tension, the way the men fidgeted with their straps. She had to remind Sisk not to play with his dog tags. He hadn't covered it all in tape and the chain would make noise.</p>
<p>"Ready?" Heyliger asked.</p>
<p>She looked across him at Colonel Dobie. The man nodded, sending them both a tight but hopeful smile. She nodded too.</p>
<p>Heyliger took a deep breath. "Let's go."</p>
<p>The boats slid into the water, sending ripples through the darkness. She forced her breaths to even out as she stepped inside, balancing as it threatened to tip. Small steps. Careful balance.</p>
<p>More, Sisk, Liebgott, and Hashey rounded out her boat. She handed the paddles out. As More leapt in at the end, sending the boat forward off the sand, she felt her heart leap into her throat. But nothing stirred except the water.</p>
<p>It wasn't until her feet hit the sand on the far side that she let herself truly breathe again. As she and Liebgott dragged the boat up, she cleared her mind. A few glances at the men around her, and she joined Dobie and Heyliger a meter from the tree line. Still no sign of Nazi activity.</p>
<p>"So, Colonel, where are they?" Heyliger whispered.</p>
<p>Dobie grinned. He leaned towards the dark trees. "Leicester."</p>
<p>"Square!"</p>
<p>The voice in the darkness sounded British. Sveta willed away the nerves that crept up like weeds. They'd heard nothing. There was no reason to believe the darkness held anything but allies.</p>
<p>"Heyliger, 506th of the 101st." He shook hands.</p>
<p>The newcomer grinned again, even wider. He shook his head. "Never thought I'd be so glad to see a bloody Yank." Then he glanced at her and his eyebrow raised a little.</p>
<p>"Captain Samsonova, 506th Red Army Liaison," she added. "I heard you've got some of my men?"</p>
<p>He nodded. "Started out with three of you Red Army Men. Now we're down to two. The Jerrys grabbed a fellow back in town when he went in for food."</p>
<p>She sighed. "Right."</p>
<p>"Your show, Colonel," Heyliger added.</p>
<p>Dobie nodded. With a quick word to his man, the two Red Devils disappeared back into the trees. Silence reigned. Only the lapping of the waves on the gravel shore disrupted it. Heyliger glanced at her. Then he turned back. "Bull, Liebgott," he hissed.</p>
<p>They scurried up like mice. Heyliger ordered them to pass the word of the impending British force. Once they were gone, he turned back to her. "Sorry about your man."</p>
<p>Sveta shrugged. "I hope for his sake that he had a gun."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"It would be less painful to die by his own gun than whatever the SS decide to do to him, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>She saw the way his eyes widened. She wished she could've felt as scared. But her mother's face just filled her memory, her mother's face, and Lana Stalina's mother who she just barely remembered, and even her own reflection that had stared back with tear stains so many times before. She didn't want to die by her own gun. But she would rather die by her own gun than whatever the Nazis or the NKVD would do to her.</p>
<p>By the time the General commanding the British Airborne appeared, Sveta had returned to the boats. There were so many men, all along the tree line, that even if she had wanted to seek out her countrymen, she was unable to. Instead she just crouched next to Sergeant More. Neither spoke.</p>
<p>"Captain, go back with the first group," Heyliger said, coming up to her. Behind him followed a General and two Lieutenants. "Escort them to the CP. Make sure they get there safely."</p>
<p>She nodded. They looked at her closely, but the General offered a smile that she tried her best to return. "More, you're with me," she ordered. When he nodded, she hopped into the boat to steady it.</p>
<p>The others followed. Sveta took a paddle this time, handing More and one of the British lieutenants the other two. Even as other boats skidded into the river, she led hers with as much poise as possible. Small ripples. Small noises. Smaller chance of dying from a stray sniper bullet.</p>
<p>Sveta never looked back. She never tried to see how the mission progressed until her feet stood on solid ground and More had begun the trek back. In the clouded night, she could barely see their boats. Sveta smiled. Then she turned to the men at her side. "Follow me."</p>
<p>By the time she'd brought the British officers to the 506th headquarters and returned, the mission had ended. She could hear a party raging from the barn. A party meant alcohol, which she sorely craved. Her own stash had dried up a couple of weeks ago. She'd been able to manage the headache, but she would take a drink of anything the men had found.</p>
<p>The moment she opened the barn door, light flooded her eyes. She shied back. But the voices inside leveled off, loud but not obnoxious. Sticking to the edges of the barn, Sveta tried to locate anyone she knew. Zhanna stood with the mortar squad, a beer in her hand. She couldn't find any of the medics. Harry seemed thoroughly drunk from his spot with Dobie and Heyliger. She sighed.</p>
<p>Someone thrust a beer into her hand. Sveta smiled down at it. With the alcohol to soothe her nerves, she moved into the crowd. Martin and Randleman stood chatting with Lipton and Luz. Lipton caught her eye and smiled.</p>
<p>She nodded to him. Sveta moved over there, drinking her beer and hoping she looked more at ease than she felt. A little over half a decade ago, she'd have been confident in her skill at hiding anxiety. Not anymore.</p>
<p>"Captain." Lipton nodded.</p>
<p>She smiled as they straightened up. "Good work," Sveta said. She nodded to each of them. But then she turned back to Randleman. "Did I see you only pretending to paddle, Sergeant?"</p>
<p>Luz and Martin both burst out laughing. For his part, Randleman just grinned around his cigar. "Yes, ma'am. Somehow my paddle broke on the shore," he explained. "I figured I'd try to blend in."</p>
<p>Sveta started laughing. "Inventive."</p>
<p>"You speak to the Russians yet, Captain?" Martin asked her.</p>
<p>"Are they here?"</p>
<p>He nodded. Pointing a bit behind himself and to the right, he tried to show her. "Think they were over there. Two of them, downing a fuck ton of beer."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "Thank you. If you'll excuse me, I should speak with them."</p>
<p>Lipton and Luz both nodded to her as she passed them. The two Russians, dressed in street clothes but still bearing their pilotkas proudly on their heads, sat on some hay. They chatted with some of the British officers. At her approach, they all looked her way. The British officers left as she began to speak in Russian.</p>
<p>"<em>I'm Captain Svetlana Samsonova</em>," she said. "<em>Red Army liaison to the American's 101st Airborne. I'm glad we could get you back to safety.</em>"</p>
<p>"<em>Alexandrovna Samsonova</em>?" The one on the left straightened up. When he stood, his full stature rose above her by a few inches. She looked into his blue eyes and could see recognition dawn in his eyes. "<em>Soviet liaison? So you are what, a spy for Premier Stalin?</em>"</p>
<p>The gut-punch his words left made Sveta stagger a bit. But the other man didn't contradict his taller comrade. Instead, he just stood as well, moving a bit closer. "<em>What else would the daughter of Alexander Samsonov be, Pyotr?"</em></p>
<p>"<em>I am no spy, Corporals. Though perhaps you should be careful of such," </em>she reminded them. "<em>Stalin has ears everywhere, comrades."</em></p>
<p>"<em>We are no comrades of yours," </em>the first spat. Taking a step forward, he raised his voice a little. As the attention of the barn turned to them, he continued on. "<em>The Army was supposed to rid itself of privileges from birthright. But people like you and Stalin's boy are proof of otherwise."</em></p>
<p>"<em>I earned my position, Corporal," </em>she hissed. Sveta's chest started to burn along with her cheeks as she realized the barn watched their every move. She had to be careful. She couldn't let anyone know of her disloyalty to the Soviets. Even as she tried to see if Zhanna had caught the men's words, their raised voices already drawing attention, she noticed the girl disappearing out of the barn. Anger flared up in her again. "<em>You would do well to watch yourselves."</em></p>
<p>"<em>We don't trust a single word you say, Alexandrovna."</em> The second man, shorter but well built, moved closer to her yet again. "<em>My friends are rotting in Siberia because of your father, and his friends Beria and Stalin. Your friends."</em></p>
<p>Sveta gripped her fists so tight she thought for sure they would turn white. They didn't understand. They couldn't understand. Shaking, Sveta turned away from them.</p>
<p>"<em>You are a traitor to the Motherland. If anyone deserves the Gulag, it is people like you."</em></p>
<p>Spinning around, she hit the man so hard across that jaw that her knuckles bled. The barn exploded into chaos as a few of Easy's men jumped the pair of Russian enlisted. Sveta clutched her hand to her chest, heaving out a few tight breaths as she suppressed the tears that wanted to spill over. Pain surged through her. Her arm felt like it was on fire even as she turned away.</p>
<p>"Martin, More," she called. The two men held the Russians back and looked sober enough. For a brief moment, she considered having them escort her countrymen to a cell. But instead she shook her head. "Let them go." Then she turned back to them. "<em>If I am a spy for the NKVD, you'll be dead before sunrise.</em>"</p>
<p>She turned on her heels. Hopefully Spina was up, or Roe. She didn't want to go to the aid station where inevitably questions would be asked. She couldn't deal with that. Not as tears already threatened to crack her porcelain façade. Not as memories of what her father had done to her Motherland's people filled her mind. Not as she thought of her permanent connection to the evil of Stalin's regime. In the darkness, she tried to stretch her bleeding hand. Steady movements, in and out with her fingers, caused such a sting that she couldn't stop from hissing through her teeth. Tears threatened to spill.</p>
<p>"How'd the mission go?"</p>
<p>Ron. She looked up at him. He leaned against the wall of the main Battalion CP building smoking a cigarette. In the lamplight that streamed down from over his head, he looked nearly angelic. But the shadows that stretched around him contradicted that image.</p>
<p>"Jesus Christ, what happened to your hand?" He pushed off the wall to stand straighter as she joined him in wrestling out a cigarette. "Did you punch a wall?"</p>
<p>She tried to laugh, but it came out more as a half hearted snort past the tears that closed her throat. "No. Just a Russian who thinks I don't belong to my country."</p>
<p>"You should've shot him."</p>
<p>Sveta did laugh that time. He was probably right. But instead, Sveta just leaned against the brick wall and allowed her eyes to close. She tried to shove the anger down, shove away the bitterness, the fire, the guilt. But as another wave of pain shot through her hand and up her arm, she winced and looked at where it had already started to swell.</p>
<p>"Shit," she muttered. Sveta didn't want to cry. She didn't want to let the men win. She didn't want to risk the weakness.</p>
<p>"Let me see it."</p>
<p>She didn't think twice before shoving her right hand his way. Maybe the pain clouded her judgement. But as soon as he grabbed it and she felt the warmth in his grasp, she straightened. Why did human contact make her feel so much better? Her breath caught as she realized he'd caught her staring.</p>
<p>Maybe because it made her feel more like a human than a puppet.</p>
<p>"Just bruised," he told her.</p>
<p>She felt heat rising to her face. But if she moved too fast, if she pulled her hand away it would betray her. So she just smirked, cocking her head a bit and drawing it back with as much nonchalance as she could manage. "That seems to be a recurring theme. First a rib, then a hand."</p>
<p>"You've got uncanny luck, Svetlana."</p>
<p>He moved closer. Sveta couldn't tear her eyes away from his own hazel ones. She felt human for a moment there. Not a pawn, not a puppet, not a doll. A person.</p>
<p>Until footsteps interrupted her. She turned away, breaking the eye contact without a second thought, but not without a deep pang of regret. She found Roe and Spina hurrying over. With an internal curse, she moved away.</p>
<p>"Captain! Sergeant Lipton said you hurt your hand," Roe said. He glanced at her, and then at Ron a bit behind and to Roe's right.</p>
<p>Sveta followed his gaze. Ron had gone back to smoking a cigarette beneath the lamp. She sighed and turned back to the medics. "I just need some ice and a wrap."</p>
<p>"We'll be the judge of that," Spina reminded her.</p>
<p>Her shoulders fell, but she nodded. She'd never won an argument with a medic, not a Russian one and not an American. With a last glance behind herself at Ron, she moved away. She needed ice. She needed sleep. And more than anything, she needed a drink.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. ...run from the light...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p><hr/><p>For all her newfound confidence around Nixon and Winters, Zhanna saw very little of them in the weeks following the battle of the crossroads. Part of it was her own choice, an attempt to distance herself from the momentary show of weakness and the secret that had slipped from her lips before she could curb it. The rest boiled down to Zhanna not crossing paths with either captain. They were much too busy preparing for the latest tactical feat, Operation Pegasus.</p><p>Nixon was particularly involved, ready to put the disaster of Market Garden behind them while Winters had been promoted to Executive Officer of the Second Battalion, placing him firmly behind a desk in the uppermost room in Battalion CP, a place Zhanna rarely visited if she could help it. Sveta spent more time in its walls than Zhanna, giving her a place on Operation Pegasus. That and her ties to the Russian military.</p><p>Operation Pegasus was a midnight mission across the Rhine to retrieve a battalion of stranded soldiers. The main front was led by Heyliger, Welsh, and the British Colonel Dobie. To everyone, particularly Zhanna's, surprise there were a few Russians among the British ranks. While the men practiced with the boats and Sveta marched about with purpose, Zhanna had retreated to a corner of the camp. Winters placed her on shore detail last minute, with the task of watching the bank for the boats and assisting with the unload. The mission itself went off without a hitch on her end, the riverbank was cold and her feet were numb long before the final boat beached.</p><p>The sand gritty between her jump boots and her socks, Zhanna grimaced. The reminder of her less than active role, a less than distracting hour spent on the beach, didn't leave her particularly ready for enjoying the party that followed. She hung back, away from the Russians and Sveta. Zhanna didn't have a shadow to hide in so she made her own, in a corner of the barn with Skip, Penkala, and Malarkey to shield her from view.</p><p>They had been more hesitant around her, noticing the change after the battle on the crossroads. Janusz had been transferred, the last thing she had seen of him was a flash of dirty blond hair as he was loaded in the transport. There was nothing to be done so Zhanna didn't bother. She didn't bother to worry about a lot of things, choosing to distract herself in any way she could. Why bother crying over her parents when she could keep fighting, keep pushing. She would be molded to the River's current anyway. Why fight the inevitable?</p><p>"Do you know these Russians?" Skip asked.</p><p>"Do you know every American?" Zhanna asked. "Don't ask foolish questions."</p><p>"Jesus, someone's testy," Malarkey said, downing another beer. Zhanna didn't think she was being unreasonable, perhaps a little sharper. But she didn't like the look on Sveta's face and she didn't like the anger that dripped through the air, hanging on every surface.</p><p>"Are they not the friendly kind?" Penkala asked.</p><p>"Most aren't," Zhanna muttered. "At least not to me."</p><p>Nixon hadn't asked why her cousin had ended up in the SS. He hadn't asked any of the questions that were no doubt burning inside him. He had kept his distance. He had allowed her the space she needed.</p><p>For what? What did she need space for? Healing? You couldn't heal from a gaping wound, something torn from your heart.</p><p>Zhanna's ears caught the only snatches of Russian, cutting through the curtain of English. And then Sveta's voice.</p><p>
  <em>"Stalin has ears everywhere, comrades."</em>
</p><p>Her blood cooled. Even there, in that hot barn with the bodies of soldiers, British and American, alike, Stalin couldn't be forgotten. Stalin, who had sent her parents to their deaths. Who had haunted her childhood as a very real ghost. The NKVD, Alexander Samsonov, and the Red Army. They had taken so much from her and the Russians on the other side of the barn were the reminder of that. Zhanna shivered, the feeling of dark eyes flooding back to her. They pierced through her wall of allies and Americans. Skip couldn't keep her safe from the eyes, and Buck wouldn't have been able to, even if he was here. Space. She needed space. Maybe not to heal but to cool off.</p><p>Cool before her whole body burned with the flush of the eyes and the heat, the beer twisting in her stomach. She had to get out of here.</p><p>She slipped past the mortarmen, past Bull, past Talbert, and into the cool night air. She didn't know where she was going. Where could a Polish girl go in the middle of the American camp? They were all expecting Zhanna Casmirovna and her sniper rifle, the picture of the Red Army. They didn't know that those Russians weren't her allies, weren't her comrades, but had been the ones who had torn her family from her. Not those two soldiers, specifically, but what they stood for. What the Russian emblem on their uniforms promised. Zhanna had been so proud of that rifle, the one she would give anything to hold at that moment, but now she wondered if that would have been enough to save her from the NKVD? From Stalin?</p><p>Where could she go? Where was she going?</p><p>Zhanna couldn't go back to Poland or to Russia, now that Agata and Casimir were not…</p><p>But where was she going now? She had left the barn as if running would put to death the fears. The eyes. The past. Where could she go?</p><p>Her eyes darted upwards, to the dark form of the CP, where a patch of light poured out of the uppermost room. A room Zhanna had never entered but provided the only sanctuary. The only safe place. Winters. She would go to Winters.</p><p>Footsteps followed her. Heart pounding, breath fast. This was it. One of the soldiers had been able to snatch a whiff of the Polish blood in her veins. Footsteps in the dark had been the call for many arrests. When there were footsteps in the alleys of Stalingrad, there would be an empty home when the sun rose. A wide-open door. A missing family. Zhanna was next. Her parents were dead and now, she couldn't stay alive any longer. The image of their reunion had been enough to ward off the men of shadows from her childhood. But they were dead and Zhanna was all alone. Again. And she had left the only Samsonov on hand in the barn, several hundred yards away.</p><p>Footsteps. Heavy boots. Drunken in weight and a little unbalanced.</p><p>Zhanna didn't have her gun with her and while she had tussled with Buck in the training yard in Aldbourne, he had always gone easier on her. She couldn't take down a drunk and angry Russian soldier. He would have a gun. And Zhanna didn't have a weapon through her birthright. She was going to die. Or worse. Neighborhood women and girls that Zhanna had seen every day would disappear into the night, killed on sight if they were lucky or raped before being shipped away for further atrocities. Rumors spiraled in the alleys of Stalingrad.</p><p>But Zhanna wasn't in Stalingrad. She was in Holland.</p><p>Her pace didn't slow while all this raced through her mind but quickened in the terror that now coursed through her veins. Sveta had always been on edge but Zhanna didn't think her friend knew what it was like to have this kind of fear. Breathing wasn't easy.</p><p>"Leaving the party so soon, Casmirovna?"</p><p>She let out a shuddering sigh of relief and stopped, in the middle of the dark road. Nixon stood behind her, and when Zhanna met his eyes, they weren't the same shade of shadow as the NKVD. They were warm. Something Zhanna had never seen in Sveta's eyes.</p><p>"You scared me," Zhanna said, her hand reaching for the collar of her shirt to loosen the layers.</p><p>"Why?" He took a step so he was in line with her, towering over Zhanna.</p><p>"I thought you were one of the…" Her voice trailed away, uneasy by his sudden closeness.</p><p>"One of the Russians?"</p><p>Zhanna nodded, her mouth too dry to continue. He knew that she was uncomfortable but he didn't know the extent of it. He didn't know that the Soviets could smell disloyalty in the air. His eyes were warm but also questioning. They were always trying to solve some complex puzzle.</p><p>"Why don't you come with me?" He glanced at her. "Unless you have somewhere else you'd rather be?"</p><p>"I was going to find Captain Winters," she stammered.</p><p>"What a coincidence," Nixon said, reaching for his flask and shaking it. The faint slosh of his chosen liquor told Zhanna he was running low. "So was I."</p><p>There wasn't much of a choice so Zhanna didn't try to offer an argument. At least she knew this threat. At least Nixon had to keep her alive so he could finish solving her. That was a comfort, at the very least. Zhanna's feet were soft on the cobblestones now, her American boots scuffed into comfort now. They had been hard and caused many blisters when she had first received them, back in Benning. When Zhanna's mind was clear and she still thought her hopeful prayers were doing something.</p><p>The stairs up to Winters's office creaked, filling the silence that yawned between them, Zhanna and her unlikely savior.</p><p>"Lew," Winters said, when Nixon pushed open the door. He sounded relieved to see a familiar face, his body relaxed and languid in the office chair but shot up when Zhanna followed the intelligence officer up the stairs. "Casmirovna."</p><p>His tone changed. Zhanna didn't care to notice though her mind did snag on the shift. He motioned for them to sit down. Zhanna took the only other available chair, forcing Nixon to scrounge for a crate of paperwork that he overturned to use as a seat.</p><p>While the officers engaged in polite small talk, discussing the success of the mission and other things that applied to their easy friendship, Zhanna stared at the desk, studying its contents. A typewriter, half-written with the date of the Crossroads battle. A fountain pen that Zhanna plucked up, twisting between her fingertips lazily, almost hypnotically. There were stacks of papers and memos that were surely as dull as nails but Zhanna didn't pay attention to any of them. She watched Winters, who was watching her out of the corner of his eye. When, for that split second, their eyes locked, the flush of the fire, the Russians, and that barn all came rushing back and she jerked her gaze away.</p><p>"You've been uncharacteristically quiet, recently," Nixon said.</p><p>"I'm always quiet, aren't I?" Zhanna's fingers twisted around the pen, their circle of confidence strung together by a quiet understanding. That Zhanna didn't want to discuss it. That Winters wasn't going to press her. It seemed Nixon wasn't ready to comply.</p><p>"More than usual. Are things not all well with the family?" He said, standing up. He snatched a key off of Winters's desk, beside the typewriter, and unlocked a footlocker in the corner.</p><p>It was a low blow, considering Janusz was, to their knowledge, in a POW camp.</p><p>"No," Zhanna said, her eyes fixing on the bottle of whiskey that he withdrew. Numbing. Burning. The sensation of alcohol on her lips was enough to make her eyes water in want. "Tell you what," She said, as Nixon made the connection between her glistening eyes and the bottle of Vat69. "You get me a glass and we can talk about it all night."</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"That's what you want, isn't it?" Zhanna said. "To solve the riddle that is the Russians?"</p><p>"Yeah but it's not as fun when you are given the answers," Nixon mused.</p><p>"I can always stay silent."</p><p>"You drive a hard bargain."</p><p>"So what will it be?"</p><p>"Got a glass?" Nixon asked Winters. He had a coffee mug, which would suffice for the intended purpose. Then he turned to her. "How does a Russian sniper end up with a cousin in the SS?" Nixon asked, pouring the whiskey into her mug and taking a swig straight from the bottle.</p><p>"He's Polish. Forced conscription. I have never met him before, to be perfectly honest."</p><p>"You are quite worked up over a cousin you've never met before," Nixon said. Zhanna coughed, from the intensity of the question and the sharpness of the whiskey.</p><p>"He brought some upsetting news," Zhanna admitted.</p><p>"Upsetting? You weren't invited to Christmas?"</p><p>"I don't celebrate Christmas, Nixon," She said, looking around. She half expected him to have a pen and paper. "Aren't you going to take notes or something?"</p><p>"Don't need notes," Nixon said. "Mind like a steel trap."</p><p>"Of course you have," Zhanna said, downing the rest of the whiskey and raising the mug for a refill.</p><p>"You didn't answer the question."</p><p>"I did," Zhanna said, waving the mug under Nixon's nose. "But it required a follow-up question that will have to be bought."</p><p>Nixon sighed, resigning to pay the price for information, while Winters looked on in horror. Whether it was the booze consumption or the waspish conversation, Zhanna didn't really care what caused the horror. She just needed more Vat 69.</p><p>"What was the upsetting news?" Nixon took another swig from the bottle, a confident dose of the tonic that loosened Zhanna's lips and boosted Nixon's ego. He must have thought he was doing some grand intelligence operation but in reality, Zhanna was just ready to burst. She had to tell someone and for free alcohol, she would gladly tell him.</p><p>"My parents are dead."</p><p>It was Nixon's time to splutter. Winters caught up his typewriter, trying to save the paper from the spray of whiskey but it was to no avail. The piles of memos were victims to Nixon's surprise and even Winters didn't seem to mind all that much. They were too occupied staring at Zhanna aghast, trying to figure out how to respond.</p><p>"Six years I thought they were alive and now, turns out, they died in '41," Zhanna laughed dryly and finished off her whiskey. Nixon didn't even try to stop her, just relinquished his hold on the bottle.</p><p>"Jesus, Casmirovna," He said. It could have been referring to the mortar round of information that she dropped or the amount of liquor she was adding to her mug.</p><p>Zhanna shook her head. "That's not my real name."</p><p>"What?" Both Nixon and Winters this time.</p><p>"That's Casimir, my father. Casmirovna."</p><p>"Your real name?" Winters asked but Zhanna shook her head, smiling dimly.</p><p>"You aren't a part of the game," she chided. Turning back to Nixon, she said, "And that question is going to cost you more than you have,"</p><p>She dropped the now empty bottle of Vat69 to the ground, where it clattered against the wood. Zhanna sloshed the contents of her mug, the thinnest layer of whiskey remained, one sip, really. "Better think carefully," She said.</p><p>"I don't think I want that to be my last question," Nixon said, looking at the bottle empty at his feet. "Your parents died in '41. What about Samsonova's mother? Didn't she die in '40?"</p><p>They couldn't have known anything about Veronika's death other than the date. Zhanna wouldn't tell Nixon anything. She would lie for Sveta, till her dying breath. No one needed to know what had happened to them that August night. No one needed to know what they had lived through.</p><p>"I don't know anything about that," she said, trying to cover the fear that had gripped her heart, the door that had flashed in her mind.</p><p>"Didn't you live with them at the time?" Nixon pressed. "Surely you know something,"</p><p>"Sveta was never a part of the deal, Nixon," Zhanna said, downing the last drops of her mug and setting it on the desk with a thump. "Try again next time."</p><p>Silence stretched between them for several frantic heartbeats. Zhanna couldn't relax, not now that the two pillars of Easy company had seen the surface of her nightmares, her darkest secrets. They knew Agata and Casimir were dead. They would soon know, if they put two and two together, that she wasn't the full red-blooded Russian that the Airborne thought she was. Nixon looked as if he wanted to test the end of the game, to push it and keep pressing but, after moments of internal struggle, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.</p><p>"I guess getting the answers saved me some time," He conceded.</p><p>"Better get a new hobby," Winters said, softly, his fingers resting on the keys of the typewriter. Zhanna laughed softly, placing the pen back on the desk with a click of metal on wood. Nixon could think that he had solved all the riddles to Zhanna but she knew that it was only the tip of the iceberg.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. ...you are not alone in this...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/><p>At night, Sveta found herself drawn to the silence of the dark. Before her mother's death, the shadows of her room in her parents' estate always soothed her. In the corners of her bedroom, she could hide. In those few years between her baptism by fire in Rostov-on-Don and the arrival of Lavrentiy Beria, she'd cloaked herself in the shadows that would dance from candlelight.</p><p>On the Island, the men stayed in the CP as often as they could. If they weren't on the line, why put themselves in danger? Sveta understood it. She knew she should probably do the same. It would be much safer in bed in the Battalion CP than wandering halfway to the river. But at the CP, Harry would try to rope her into a poker game, Nixon would crack a few jokes, and Winters would play the mediator when they got into a scuffle. It always went that way.</p><p>Harry would let them go at it. Sometimes he watched it like a game of tennis. Nixon would get under her skin, she would make a snide remark back and ruffle his feathers, and he would do the same right back. Winters never looked pleased, but he often stayed silent until reminding them to take a breath. Usually starting with her, no matter what had instigated the scuffle.</p><p>So she preferred the dark. Night added a second blanket of security against any potential NKVD spies. The odds that he had one on the front lines was already small; having a spy that would be willing to walk around close to the front at night dropped the likelihood even lower. So here she could relax.</p><p>Sveta stopped by a set of trees that had yet to fall. Above her, a three-quarter moon shined down surrounded by a crown of stars. She smiled. What a funny thing, that peace and security and relaxation came from a place of such destruction and danger. But it did. She could breathe, here. She could breathe in the slightly wet grass from the recent drizzle of rain, the way the earth had been churned up by troops that day.</p><p>No Lewis Nixon to crack her recovering mask.</p><p>No Harry Welsh to stay silent as she squirmed.</p><p>No Richard Winters to play favorites for his friend.</p><p>Just her. Just Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, the girl with a shattered soul and frightened mind. Just Sveta, alone.</p><p>She opened her eyes to look at the moon through the branches. The dark wood cut cracks along the pure moon, like the skin of a shattered porcelain doll. Her smile fell. Alone. Zhanna had decided Nixon and Winters were better to trust with secrets than her. Nixon and Winters knew better how to help her cope with the death of her parents. Sveta frowned. In fact, Zhanna rarely spoke to her these days; Skip Muck, Don Malarkey, Dick Winters, all better company for her than her fellow Russian.</p><p>Well, not fellow Russian. Zhanna wasn't really Russian. Not by blood.</p><p>A twig snapped. Sveta reacted on instinct. She pointed the sidearm that sometimes reminded her too much of an NKVD pistol straight at the looming shadow two meters away. She found herself staring down the barrel of another gun. Her whole body shook.</p><p>"Svetlana?"</p><p>"Ron! What the hell!"</p><p>"Christ, what are you doing out here?" he demanded at the same time.</p><p>She rolled her eyes, forcing the trembling in her bones to stop. No spy, no Nazi. Just Ron. It took a moment to convince her arms to work, but eventually, she lowered her pistol and put it back in her holster. "I came out for a walk."</p><p>"Because that makes sense, Svetlana," he growled. But he lowered his gun too, and moved over to join her at the trees. "You trying to get yourself shot?"</p><p>"No. Are you?" She looked at him. The faintest slivers of moonlight filtered through the bare branches and highlighted his face. He seemed still, more than even usual, jaw set. "What are you doing out here?"</p><p>He bit his lip and glanced around. Then he turned back. "Got a mission. Strayer and Sink want me to scout the other side."</p><p>"You're serious?" Her eyes widened as he nodded. "By yourself?"</p><p>He tried to look unfazed. But the way he kept looking into the darkness, she figured he knew how dangerous it was even when he tried to explain the anxiety away. "It's quieter than a whole patrol."</p><p>"This is fucking insane."</p><p>"They're orders."</p><p>She huffed, looking away from him. Her Mosin-Nagant lay against the tree, perched precariously muzzle up. The beating of her heart increased as she looked at it. Closing her fists Sveta made up her mind. "You're not going by yourself."</p><p>He huffed. "Svetlana, the orders were I go across alone. It'll minimize the likelihood of detection. Safer for all parties."</p><p>"Then I won't go across," she argued back. "I'm better from a distance, anyways."</p><p>Ron turned to look at her. She felt heat flush to her face again, remembering not too many nights ago. The knuckles on her hand still stung when she flexed her fingers, the scabs a painful reminder of the rejection of her people. But the warmth beneath the skin, the healing, reminded her of sharing cigarettes.</p><p>"Right." He nodded. "Let's go."</p><p>Sveta let him take point. The shadows that had offered comfort and memories of better days now seemed to grow. Every shift of the darkness closed in. Instead of her mother, Sveta thought of the blue-capped NKVD. She thought of her father's dark eyes.</p><p>Each footfall reminded her of their flight from Europe. Sneaking, hiding in shadows. At least years of playing dumb and obedient had trained her for deception in cities. That had helped more than she'd expected for stealth in combat.</p><p>With each step, Sveta found it harder to breathe. Closer and closer to the river, they slunk along like wolves on the hunt. Her hands molded to the rifle. Muscle memory. The small rumble of the river began to fill the air around them. While the noise helped obscure any stray sounds, they'd come to a portion of the river least guarded. The sandbags had fallen in some places. It allowed for easier access to the river, but also an easy target.</p><p>Sveta crouched with Ron behind a bit that was still intact. A staff sergeant from Fox joined them. As they hid behind the sandbags and sheet metal, they caught their breath.</p><p>"Sirs?" the man asked.</p><p>"Go about your regular duties, Sergeant," Ron ordered.</p><p>His brow furrowed. But the sergeant nodded, leaving them be and moving a bit further down the line, though still within easy earshot. Sveta watched him.</p><p>"I'll be back in 25 minutes," Ron said. He held up his watch to catch what little light he could. After looking at it a bit longer, he nodded. "Don't do anything stupid. I can see it now—"</p><p>"Me? Like what? Save your ass? I already did that once in Normandy." She smirked as he went to protest. Waving him off, she just chuckled. "Go, Ron."</p><p>As he stood up, shed his coat, and crept to the fallen bit of the wall, he muttered back to her. "If I die, make sure Casmirovna doesn't get my cigarettes."</p><p>It took all her years of practice not to burst out laughing. But he wasted no time and offered her no chance at a response. Instead, Ron snuck away. Sveta grinned.</p><p>Rifle in hand, she settled down on her stomach in the V-shaped hole in the crumbled defenses. One of the few remaining sandbags provided a place for her to rest the rifle. Squaring herself to the gun, she looked out across the river.</p><p>The irony of how at ease a warzone put her never left Sveta's mind. Even as she watched Ron ease himself into the water, tensing at the cold no doubt, and then start across, she thought about it. Even when Ron disappeared into a small section of trees on the other side. She lost track of him, but her thoughts drifted to the nature of war.</p><p>Chaotic, dangerous, ugly. Those were the words she used to think would describe war. And they were true, to an extent. Watching soldiers bleed out, watching as their eyes turned the same glassy nothingness she'd seen in her mother's, watching as men became scared boys, it was chaotic and dangerous and ugly. But there was a sort of rhythm to war.</p><p>The pulsing of artillery, the purr of machine guns, the crack of rifle bullets. Chaos to some, but Sveta found that weapons made more sense than people. In Russia, every man and woman wore a mask. Stalin would smile for the pictures, hold his daughter's hand, and then turn around and employ a man like Beria who he knew raped women as a pastime. Alexander, her father, would preach on the importance of security through eradication, and then he'd give her a kiss and proclaim his love. Even her mother. Veronika would kiss her husband, call him Sasha, bed him at night, and then spend her days undermining his causes in silence.</p><p>Bullets did not lie. The battlefield made sense. She didn't have to wear a mask here, laying in inch thick mud, her neck straining a bit as she looked past her rifle into the darkness across the river. She just had to do a job, here. Pull a trigger.</p><p>The minutes ticked by. No movement caught her eye. At the twenty-minute mark, her hand started to fidget with the trigger. Sveta closed her fists, trying to relax. But she couldn't. She couldn't. Not with Ron in the shadows somewhere.</p><p>Just as she felt like screaming from the tense silence, movement and the crack of a sniper bullet jolted her upright. She looked down the scope. Her heart leapt into her throat as she saw Ron on the other side stumble into the water.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Sveta began to scan any opening she could see. Any discoloration of a black muzzle against a lighter background. Any glint of light off metal. Anything.</p><p>She found nothing.</p><p>Sveta dropped her rifle and scrambled up. Instead, she pulled out her American pistol and skidded down the riverbank. A rock jabbed into her side as she fell into it. The pain barely registered as she glanced between Ron's struggle across the river and the other side for enemy movement.</p><p>Still nothing.</p><p>Ron hauled himself onto the bank. Making a split-second choice, Sveta stuck the pistol back in the holster and moved over to him. She grabbed his arm, water cascading through her fingers even as her scabbed knuckles stung. Hissing out a curse in Russian, she heaved him up.</p><p>"Fuck, you're heavy!" she snapped. Sveta didn't give herself time to figure out where he'd been shot, who had shot him, or with what weapon. Using her body as best she could to support him, Sveta hurried back towards the line.</p><p>Ron half growled half cried out as she stumbled and nearly dropped him. "Jesus Christ!"</p><p>Close enough to the barriers, Sveta didn't respond to his complaining. Instead, she called out for a medic. Multiple pairs of footsteps pounded down the line from the left. Just as they reached the wall, she shoved him to a waiting staff sergeant. He barked orders.</p><p>She felt the punch first. A small hiss of air accompanied it. Then the crack, the sound Sveta knew too well. The sound she'd heard many times.</p><p>Her knees hit the ground first. Sveta couldn't tell if she had cried out, or if someone else had. But a burning sensation started to radiate from her abdomen. All the voices, all American gibberish, droned in her ears. Sveta couldn't make sense of it.</p><p>She could see stars, though.</p><p>"Sveta! Shit."</p><p>Gritting her teeth, Sveta tried to reorient herself to the man who'd said her name. Focus on the name. She tasted blood. But it did the trick, as a medic landed by her side and began to push up her clothes—</p><p>No. No!</p><p>Sveta dug her fingers into the mud, trying to get away. She had to get away from the shadow men. They were touching her—</p><p>"Captain, relax."</p><p>"She needs to stay still! Fuck, I can't see it!"</p><p>"Sveta!"</p><p>Ron. Mud got in her mouth, mixing with the tang of blood. She choked. The sudden movement shot pain through her chest. Sveta couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.</p><p>"Sveta, calm down."</p><p>"I'm gonna give her some morphine. Damn it, Lieutenant, we need you to give us room so we can look at you too."</p><p>She felt a prick like a mosquito bite. Her vision clouded, darkness threatening to consume her as the men kept touching her. The pain faded. The voices faded. Black covered all, and then she felt nothing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. ...see through you...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p><hr/><p>For all her dislike of Nixon, Zhanna couldn't deny he could keep a secret. When the Vat 69 had left her body and the desperation for numbness had likewise departed, she realized how much she had told. The puzzle was half completed and she had just handed Lewis Nixon the rest of the pieces. It wouldn't take long for him to put them into place and she hadn't been too convinced of his ability to shut his mouth. Much to her surprise and relief, not a word was said, even when they moved from The Island to Mourmelon.</p><p>Before the whiskey had left her system, she did tell a bloody-knuckled Sveta, of her parents' death. Zhanna didn't have to live with any ill feelings for her secrecy for long. Sveta and Speirs, out on patrol one night, were shot and sent to a hospital in France. While Sveta had been sympathetic to Zhanna, there was an underlying feeling of hurt.</p><p>Zhanna hadn't told her about Janusz until after it was discussed with Nixon and Winters. Zhanna, again, hadn't told Sveta about Casimir and Agata until Winters and Nixon had been informed. It wasn't intentional. Zhanna would rather have told Liebgott about her losses in life than share it with Nixon but when the moment had come and the news had burst from her chest, Sveta wasn't there and Winters and Nixon were.</p><p>If Nixon had put two and two together he didn't let on, and for that small mercy, Zhanna was grateful. She was also grateful that she saw very little of Winters as they settled into their new position. He was much too busy with the new CO. In their final days in Holland, Moose Heyliger was caught in friendly fire and had been taken to France for recovery. They hadn't heard much news, none had reached Zhanna, and all they knew was the outlook wasn't good. They had lost one CO and they had received another in his stead, a man named Dike. Zhanna's opinion of him wasn't kind. As first impressions went, she thought their introduction a sad excuse.</p><p>He had seen her from behind, not participating in the formation marches that had filled Easy Company's days now that they were off the line and were activities that Zhanna had never taken part in. She was a First Lieutenant and there was no platoon in her charge. She had stood near Winters, and then Heyliger when such drills were performed. Zhanna had last marched with Sobel, a miserable memory that she tried to forget.</p><p>"Soldier, why are you not in formation?"</p><p>"Sir?" Zhanna turned, her helmet had covered her cropped blonde hair and from the back, her small frame concealed her as a very thin soldier. Liebgott was slighter than she was so Zhanna had never cared but coming face to face with First Lieutenant Norman Dike, she couldn't be denied for what she was: a woman, and a woman of the same rank as Easy's new CO. She narrowed her eyes, warning Dike but he plunged onward, not caring or recognizing who she was.</p><p>Zhanna had come to assume the same kind of power Sveta had possessed in Stalingrad but hers had a different weight to it. Zhanna's power came from the calluses on her hands and the rifle on her back. Soldiers knew who she was. They knew that she was one of the Russians, the sniper, the one who had broken Liebgott's nose, and had turned an outfit of Germans on their tail during the battle for Carentan. They knew who Lieutenant Casmirovna was and what she did. That kind of power was addicting and she devoured it. Would it last after the war? Unlikely but in the space left by the hope for her parent's safety, Zhanna stored up the giddiness and the strength that the men's respect gave her. Dike would learn too, what a Polyakov was capable of.</p><p>"Soldier, why are you not in formation?" He repeated.</p><p>Zhanna's lips lifted, it could be passed off as a smile. She let him think that's what it was. She could have held her tongue and gotten into formation, marching for this new CO as she had for Sobel. If they were still under Captain Winters' command, Zhanna would have complied but, unlike when Sobel was in charge, she wasn't worried about getting home. Why would she, when there was nothing left?</p><p>"Lieutenant," she said sweetly, "I prefer not to march with the Americans."</p><p>Dike's mouth hung open, trying to figure out who she was and why she was refusing him. Zhanna stretched out her hand and said. "First Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna, Liaison from the Red Army."</p><p>As if he didn't know what else to do, Dike accepted her hand and shook it.</p><p>"A pleasure to meet you."</p><p>"You don't…" His voice trailed away.</p><p>Lieutenant Peacock, sensing a struggle, and knowing what Zhanna was capable of and who she was, jumped in. "Sir, Lieutenant Casmirovna does not participate in drills. She has permission from Colonel Sink himself."</p><p>Colonel Sink, who had called Zhanna into his office once again after the battle of the crossroads, and had asked her about Janusz. It seemed her cousin had claimed her while being processed for transfer. He had wanted to know if it was true. She hadn't lied. He couldn't tell her where Janusz was going but he had sensed the emotion that wracked her frame. She had been let go without further question but Zhanna knew she could use this admiration for her personal gain if needed.</p><p>"They called him Foxhole Norman back in Holland," Skip said, kicking his feet up on the crates of ammunition, his helmet used as a headrest. Zhanna hadn't been surprised. Something about the man and his fearful eyes at her confrontation hadn't boded well for their future combat.</p><p>"You think he's gonna be like Sobel?" Penkala asked.</p><p>They gathered, post-training and drills, behind the command tent, where crates and transports were parked, hiding them from view. Zhanna preferred to keep out of sight, lest Nixon get too confident and try to present her whole story to the entirety of Easy Company. That, and she didn't feel like everyone's eyes on her. With Sveta gone, and Buck's absence now stretching some three months, she was tired of being stared at with no shadow to hide in. Muck, Malarkey, and Penkala were good company but she wouldn't tell them her secrets. And she couldn't unload her now battered heart's grievances to them.</p><p>"I don't think anyone could be like Sobel," Malarkey lit a cigarette and then passed it to Penkala, who regarded it with distaste.</p><p>"Did you get this from Cas'?" He asked, studying the cigarette in question.</p><p>"It's not one of Speirs'," Zhanna assured him and with that confirmation, Penkala took a long drag from the cigarette. She was out of Speirs' Lucky Strikes and he wasn't around to acquire more. Luck. Casimir said you had to make your own. Had theirs run out?</p><p>Zhanna hadn't allowed herself to unpack that corner of her mind, leaving it locked up and bound by a silver chain. She didn't want to think about it and she couldn't, not without the tears welling. Zhanna didn't want to cry. Zhanna didn't want to fight, either. She didn't know where she was going. And Zhanna didn't want to be afraid of the unknown. So she kept pushing. Life wasn't done with her yet. She could cheat its jaws for a few more weeks. Berlin by Christmas seemed like a pipedream now but the men were saying March. March, and then she would be free. Get Sveta home, and then free.</p><p>And after that?</p><p>Well, she didn't need to worry about that. Who was to say she would even see Stalingrad's streets again?</p><p>"I think he's gonna be like Sobel," Muck continued, accepting the safe cigarettes from Malarkey.</p><p>"And we'll do what we did with Sobel," Zhanna said.</p><p>"And what was that?"</p><p>"I said it often," Zhanna said. "Do you not remember?"</p><p>"I don't remember half the things you say," Skip confessed. "Sometimes I forget you can even talk."</p><p>Zhanna shook her head in mock disgust. He was trying to lighten the mood. They were all aware that a bad CO would cost more lives. They all knew the cost of war now. The ranks of Easy were quickly filled with men who had never seen Benning, MacKall, or the skies of Normandy. Fresh faces mean green rifles and they would follow any orders down to the letter. That was dangerous. And it was terrifying.</p><p>"We follow orders until we can't anymore," Zhanna reminded them. "Orders aren't law. They are guidelines."</p><p>"What defines, 'can't'?" Malarkey asked.</p><p>"Life and death, and your better judgment," Zhanna said. "We've seen Normandy work. We've seen Market Garden fall apart. Trust yourself."</p><p>"Do you?" Penkala asked.</p><p>Zhanna looked down at her boots, American. Her skin, pale as the Russian snow. Her hair, blonde like her Polish father's, fell into her eyes. She had seen survival first hand and she knew its cadence well.</p><p>"Yes," Zhanna said. "I do."</p><p>She knew how to survive, she had been doing it for years but it was hard to teach it to men who had grown up in relative safety. Never questioning if their neighbors would turn against them or if the law would suddenly snatch them up. Siberia, gulags, and certain death weren't realities in the Easy Company vocabulary but Zhanna knew it well. She had read every lesson, practiced every word, and her tongue could form them without thought. But would that be enough?</p><p>"It would be easier if Winters was our CO again," Malarkey said.</p><p>Zhanna nodded, looking over her shoulder. The red-haired officer was coming out of the command tent, his dark brown jacket deeper in the weak sunlight, and his face was ruddy in the cool wind. He looked up from the report in his hand and met her eyes. He might have smiled, Zhanna looked away before she could study his face further.</p><p>"It would be easier," she said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0055"><h2>55. ...the night-time fear...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sveta had no luck in life. Or, her luck had run out sometime around the defense of Island. In fact, since Winters' transfer to Battalion XO, she'd had nothing but bad luck. First, she'd been shot in the abdomen. As if having her insides ripped by a bullet hadn't been bad enough, she'd been stuck in the corner of a hospital room that included Sergeant Guarnere. Moe Alley's presence made it a little better; at least she got along with him these days. But she wondered where Ron had been placed. Maybe with Compton?</p>
<p>She'd seen Heyliger's arrival two days before. He'd looked like a mess. The rumors claimed friendly fire. Bullets didn't discriminate between friend or foe, they had one purpose and that was to take life.</p>
<p>Like her mother's.</p>
<p>At just after dinner, the large room that contained about a dozen soldiers still buzzed with activity. Nurses, rushing here and there with dressings and bedpans and clipboards, reminded her of the workers in the estate she'd grown up in. Their gentle smiles at the patients seemed genuine, even when many of the men returned the kindness with vulgarity and flirts.</p>
<p>The medication kept her pain down. She'd woken up a few days after arriving in France, taken off the morphine and sleeping pills that had kept her quiet and still. The surgeon said she'd recover, but it would take time.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't have time to sit in a hospital surrounded by men she didn't know, or didn't like.</p>
<p>Alley had the bed next to her. He sat up, the wounds on his chest healing well, and dealt a hand of cards to Guarnere on the cot to his other side. Guarnere could barely walk; the broken leg and wound to his ass made him all sorts of grumbly. Not that she expected anything different.</p>
<p>"You fucking kidding me, Alley? These?" Guarnere scoffed at the cards in his hand. "I mean Jesus Christ, I know you like to win, but be more subtle 'bout your cheating."</p>
<p>Alley just laughed. "Keep thinking that, Gonorrhea. It'll make you feel better when you lose."</p>
<p>About half of the usual dozen full beds were empty. The pleasant weather meant those capable of and allowed to walk had left the confines of the recovery ward. She'd been cleared for walking the day before as long as she took it slow and stopped at any sign of increased damage to the wound. But she didn't want to go alone.</p>
<p>Then again, as Guarnere and Alley droned on in their card game, she didn't want to listen to them either. The spinning ceiling fans could only keep her occupied for so long. She yawned.</p>
<p>"Hey, Captain, you want in on a game?"</p>
<p>The question came from Alley. Still on her back, she rolled onto her healthy side and looked at them. Guarnere frowned from beyond Alley. She felt much the same. But the prospect of laying there, trying to follow a single blade of a ceiling fan as it went round and round in circles, seemed somehow even less appealing.</p>
<p>"What game?" she asked.</p>
<p>Alley shrugged. "What do you know?"</p>
<p>Sveta pushed herself up. A bit of pain shot through her left side, but she stifled it with a bite to her cheek. Stuff down the pain. "Five-card draw and Blackjack."</p>
<p>"You wanna play poker?" Guarnere asked.</p>
<p>Sveta grabbed the white metal of the bed frame and stood. The action felt foreign. But she didn't fall. "Is that a surprise to you, Sergeant?"</p>
<p>Guarnere's jaw set tighter. But only after he looked across and saw Alley snickering into his cards did he protest. "Hey, I ain't met many broads who play Poker. Guess in Russia they teach you different."</p>
<p>"I didn't learn Poker in Russia, Sergeant," she told him. "Luz and Muck showed me how to play. The only thing I learned in Russia," she added, moving closer to use Alley's bedframe for a bit of support, "was how to bluff."</p>
<p>Alley grinned. "Great. This'll be a good game then." He scooted over on his cot to give her a spot to sit.</p>
<p>The open spot made her pause. She had to sit there to play, there was no other option. The tingling of her anxiety filled Sveta's body with chills. But she stuffed it down. She had to sit.</p>
<p>So she sat next to him. Alley had gathered up the cards, not even bothering to continue the game that Guarnere had ranted about. As he shuffled, Sveta watched the space around them.</p>
<p>"Alright, Captain, I've got a question," Alley asked.</p>
<p>The suddenness of his voice made her startle. But she looked at him and nodded. "What?"</p>
<p>"Why are you so jumpy all the time when out of the field?"</p>
<p>Sveta didn't know how to respond. She could see him watching her, even as his hands moved to shuffle the cards without thinking. Guarnere looked as surprised as she did, maybe that he'd spoken up at all. What was she supposed to say?</p>
<p>"How so?" she asked. Guarnere snorted. But when Sveta turned on him, he just looked away. She turned back to Alley. "I'm careful, Alley, because I've been in the business for a while."</p>
<p>"Yeah, what business?" Guarnere interrupted before Alley could respond. "You were only in combat like a month more than us."</p>
<p>Sveta turned on him. His dark eyes glared back into hers. It made her skin crawl. Guarnere was the right mix of brash and ignorant to be potentially dangerous, and that opinion of him had yet to change. He was good to his men, but he didn't understand.</p>
<p>"You're not wrong," she admitted. "But I was taught survival many years before setting foot on a battlefield." Sveta looked down at the cards Alley had passed her. Pair of twos, a queen, a nine, and a six. She looked up at them. "What's the opening bet?"</p>
<p>"Two dollars," Alley said.</p>
<p>She nodded. Sveta assured them she could cover it. As they both agreed, she felt her chest tighten. She stared down at the queen in her hand. Queen of Spades. Unbidden memory of her mother's blank eyes filled her mind. She lowered the cards for a moment. "The enemy you can't see is more dangerous than any enemy you can," Sveta added. She didn't know why she told them this. But she did. "Not just snipers. The one to stab a knife into your back has to step behind you first. That's usually a friend."</p>
<p>Like her father. Like Beria. Like Stalin. They all smiled like friends. They all greeted her like friends. Her father even thought he was one. But they were not friends.</p>
<p>They were enemies.</p>
<p>"You got experience in that, Captain?" Alley prodded.</p>
<p>Sveta looked at him. It took a moment for him to glance up from his cards, but he met her gaze. She bit her lip and then looked back to the discard pile. "I think I've said enough to satisfy your American curiosity."</p>
<p>"Captain Samsonova?"</p>
<p>Sveta looked up at the call of her name from the doorway. The card game disrupted, they all turned. She found Ron standing next to a nurse, frowning. Sveta smiled.</p>
<p>"Captain, you need to start walking," the nurse told her. "Lieutenant Speirs is in the same boat. Neither of you seems to want to do what you're told," the fiery brunette added. "So. You're going to do it together or I'll have to find a surgeon to order you."</p>
<p>"Fine." She handed her cards back to Alley and stood. The bed creaked as she did so, but her balance didn't waver. She released a breath. Instead, she rounded Alley's cot to grab her coat. The nursing staff had allowed her to put back on pants instead of a gown, citing the right to privacy, but her loose tee-shirt would be too cool for outside.</p>
<p>"Hey, nurse," Guarnere called.</p>
<p>"What is it, Sergeant?"</p>
<p>"How's Lieutenant Heyliger?"</p>
<p>The room quieted, even the men who hadn't been involved in the poker match. They all turned towards the woman even as Sveta finished her careful movements to pull on her jacket.</p>
<p>"Touch and go, but the surgeons think he'll be fine," she said. "Once he's stable enough he'll be sent to England."</p>
<p>Guarnere nodded. "Good."</p>
<p>After a last look at her cot, wishing for a moment she had the sidearm Sveta loved so much, she moved somewhat slowly towards the door. Ron watched her. Once they'd gone out into the hall, the nurse turned to both of them.</p>
<p>"Right. You both need to walk for ten minutes. Lieutenant Speirs, you should try for more." She looked at her watch. "That means you should be back to the room no earlier than 1850 hours."</p>
<p>She nodded. The small infection post-surgery had derailed her recovery time. But the nurse was right. She needed to walk. She needed to get moving. And at least it was with Ron, not some random soldier or nurse. As the nurse started down a hall to another large room, they turned left to take a different one.</p>
<p>"How's your recovery coming?" Sveta asked him. "Was it worth the intel you gathered?"</p>
<p>Ron scoffed. "Well, walking is better than sitting."</p>
<p>"Ah yes, I see you followed in Easy's footsteps," Sveta teased. "Shot in the ass, right?"</p>
<p>He nodded. Sveta saw him trying to suppress the pain that each step likely caused. His nose scrunched up a bit, his eyes narrowed. But she figured she looked much the same. It wasn't even that the wound hadn't healed. It had been almost three weeks. The skin had mostly closed. But the pain remained.</p>
<p>She supposed pain was just like that: always below the surface, hidden away to be carried alone. A set of small, round tables sat outside in a small courtyard. A couple of men sat playing checkers by the massive spotlights. A nurse checked a clipboard under another one. In the cool air, she took a deep breath. The sharp pang up her side made her falter, but she forced it away.</p>
<p>"You're quiet," Ron said.</p>
<p>His eyes were on her. Sveta shrugged, not able to conjure a smile at him. She didn't like hospitals. Too many shadowy corners she couldn't watch, too many opportunities for someone to track her moves. And being wounded brought Sveta a whole new level of vulnerability she hated.</p>
<p>"My company would tell you that's normal," she argued.</p>
<p>But Ron just started snickering as they continued around the courtyard. After making brief eye contact with the nurse who kept an eye on them, he shook his head. "This the same Company who thought you were going to assassinate them one by one after you almost killed Guarnere?"</p>
<p>"Same one," she agreed. After a deep breath, she turned to him. "Did you shoot him?"</p>
<p>"Who?"</p>
<p>"The sergeant in your platoon."</p>
<p>Ron paused. His mouth became a thin line, and he looked away for a moment. Then he nodded, and turned to her. "I did."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"He was drunk," Ron told her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Pulled out a gun. He was going to shoot me, or worse, alert the enemy to our position."</p>
<p>She nodded. That made sense. Hard choices had to be made in war.</p>
<p>"Would you have shot him?" Ron asked.</p>
<p>She looked at him. Guarnere? or the D Company Sergeant. "Your sergeant?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>She nodded. "Yes. There are worse ways to die than someone else's bullet."</p>
<p>Weeks ago, she'd told him about missing Russia. About the way, she wished she could see the Volga again. He'd commented only once on the way she avoided mentioning the people. She told him very little. But she'd taken a bullet at his side. And as she looked at him, saw his eyes following her while they shuffled around under the spotlights, Sveta found herself wondering if this was someone she could talk to. She'd never had that.</p>
<p>"Do you miss your family?" she asked him.</p>
<p>Ron shrugged ever so slightly. "I try not to think about them. I'm here to fight, and to win, to die if necessary." Then he turned her way again. "You?"</p>
<p>She stopped breathing for a moment. The shadows didn't hide anyone, or so she hoped. Beria wasn't here, and she had to stop thinking he was. The only Russians anywhere near the hospital were herself and a few diplomats with the Brass.</p>
<p>"I miss my mother," she admitted. Sveta paused in their walk. She folded her arms across her chest and could feel herself rocking a bit on her feet. Admitting it out loud felt equal parts terrifying and relieving. "She died in 1940," Sveta tried to explain. "August."</p>
<p>"And your father?"</p>
<p>He nearly backed up when she looked him in the eyes. Sveta narrowed her eyes, quickly turning away. She was losing the mask here. She had lost it, then gained it, but Ron made it crumble. He shattered it, just by his presence.</p>
<p>"He killed her," Sveta said. At his widening eyes, she continued on. "He didn't pull the trigger, but he killed her."</p>
<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
<p>Her body trembled. It felt like flames fought to escape her chest, her face. Her fists tightened. "She killed herself, with my father's pistol. She got tired of hiding. Tired of the fear." Sveta tried to breathe, tried to think. Pain shot through her abdomen as each memory rushed through her mind. "I hate him. If I could put a bullet between his eyes, I would. Him and Stalin." And Beria. But that she could never say. She could never say his name out loud in an open space. "They killed my mom. They killed Nadezhda Stalina."</p>
<p>Would they kill her too? She couldn't stop shaking. From fear, from anger, from pain, Sveta didn't know. She couldn't tell them apart anymore. They all felt like burning sparks under her skin.</p>
<p>The Korovin pistol that killed her had been Alexander Samsonov's.</p>
<p>The regime that killed her had been Joseph Stalin's.</p>
<p>Her mother had pulled the trigger. But when a puppet had her strings pulled, what else could she do but die? Veronika had left Sveta. Alone, to watch out for Zhanna, to watch out for herself. The bloodstains had never left that mattress. They'd had to throw it away. But she couldn't get the bloodstains out of her memory, and memory could not be thrown away.</p>
<p>She wanted a drink. She needed a drink.</p>
<p>"Nadezhda Stalina?" he asked, a moment later.</p>
<p>"Stalin's second wife."</p>
<p>Ron raised an eyebrow. "How many women close to Stalin killed themselves?"</p>
<p>"I don't know," she admitted. Sveta ran a hand through her hair. She tried to calm down, tried to think, to breathe. "I don't know, those two at least."</p>
<p>"And you want to go back to that?"</p>
<p>The incredulity of his tone made Sveta step back. It cut through the air like the crack of a bullet. He didn't understand.</p>
<p>"I have to go back, Ron. It's my duty," she argued. But as he just shook his head, she could see the anger building in him.</p>
<p>"You're going to go back to a place that killed your mother?" he seethed. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"</p>
<p>Sveta gritted her teeth. He didn't understand. That scared her more than almost anything. The idea of being the third, the final victim perhaps of Samsonov and Stalin and Beria. The third to point a Korovin pistol at her own temple. But she had no choice. "I love my country as much as you love yours!"</p>
<p>He scoffed. "You could defect. Stay in England, or the States."</p>
<p>It was her turn to laugh. "You don't think I've thought about it? I don't want to work for Stalin any more than you do. But Russia is my home. I don't know America, and what I saw of it and how I was treated made me certain America doesn't want me."</p>
<p>"Then leave the Stalin administration," Ron argued. "Russia's a big place."</p>
<p>Sveta could hear the anger leave his voice even as his shoulders fell. He did care. So she tried to let go of her own anger. "It's not that simple," she admitted. "I'm probably safer closer to Stalin than further away. My father thinks he loves me, and he'll be sure no one touches me so long as he and Stalin are allies. My hands are tied, Ron. It's the way it is. I fight for what I can take within the confines they set out for me."</p>
<p>He didn't respond. He couldn't understand, not really. Especially not without knowing of Beria's piece in the puzzle. But she couldn't tell him that. Not now. Maybe not ever. But then, maybe someday.</p>
<p>They kept walking. Sveta's side began to burn, and each breath became more of a hiss as they finished another lap around the courtyard. But before she could suggest going back, Ron interrupted her thoughts.</p>
<p>"I heard you almost drank yourself to death in Aldbourne."</p>
<p>Sveta raised her eyes to him. She hadn't expected that. Her breakdown on the day of her mother's death seemed to stay quiet. Zhanna and Compton had found her, not the enlisted. That at least had been good luck. But apparently, Compton didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.</p>
<p>"That wasn't my intention," she argued. "I overestimated how much alcohol I could handle."</p>
<p>"You nearly blacked out, Svetlana."</p>
<p>Sveta looked at him. "Yes. I did."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>Silence fell between them. The two men who had been playing checkers had left. Only the pretty brunette nurse on duty remained, watching them between writing on her clipboard. Sveta figured she was writing something personal, based on the sheer number of times Sveta had caught her smiling down at the paper.</p>
<p>"21 August 1940," she stated. "That was the day she died."</p>
<p>"Your mother?"</p>
<p>"Yes. Everything changed when she pulled that trigger," Sveta tried to explain. Her voice wavered a bit. Taking a moment to force down the flood of emotions, she paused before continuing. "She left me alone. Alone to watch out for Zhanna, for myself. Politics is a game, but a dangerous one," she said. "She lost. And she left me alone. Sorry if it makes me drink!"</p>
<p>He just nodded.</p>
<p>"I'm tired. I want to sleep." Sveta wasted no time in starting towards the door where the nurse stood. Her side burned. She took a breath. Tears stung her eyes as a jolt like freezing electricity shot through her. Sveta hissed and stumbled towards the wall. "Fuck."</p>
<p>The nurse and Ron reached her at the same moment. "It hurts," she choked out. With every attempt at stuffing back the tears, her side and her face hurt more.</p>
<p>"Come on, hun," the nurse said. "Let's get you back inside."</p>
<p>Sveta forced out a nod. With her help, Sveta pushed off the wall and tried to straighten. Ron's hand on her arm never moved. The firm grip helped, grounded her. She breathed through the pain. She let herself focus on the warmth of the grip on her arm holding her up.</p>
<p>"Steady now," the nurse said. "Lieutenant, are you able to get back to your room?"</p>
<p>Ron turned from Sveta, who he'd been watching, and nodded once. "I'm fine. Standing is easier than sitting. Do you need help?"</p>
<p>Sveta realized he was talking to her. She shook her head. "I'll be fine," she assured him. For years, she'd handled herself. She hadn't cried in front of anyone, not since she could remember. The emotion that being near Ron Speirs brought out scared her. Her chest tightened. "Thank you."</p>
<p>He still didn't remove his hand.</p>
<p>"Lieutenant, you need rest too," the nurse insisted.</p>
<p>He let go. Sveta released a deep breath as the nurse, whose name she didn't know, spoke to her in a calm, quiet tone. As she steadied herself and they moved off towards the door, she offered Ron a small smile. It was the best she could do. The last thing she saw was his small frown and sharp, hazel eyes watching as they turned a corner.</p>
<p>"You need to be more careful, Captain," the nurse said. "Watch yourself. Don't push too hard. You got lucky, there was only a little damage to critical organs. But you were still shot."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. "I'll try."</p>
<p>"Good. Come, then."</p>
<p>It didn't take long to reach her room. Guarnere and Alley were laying back on their beds, going through letters. Most of the beds, even the ones that had been empty earlier, had refilled. Some men slept, some chatted quietly. Sveta shook off the nurse at the door. She would enter without assistance, no matter the pain.</p>
<p>She'd been in worse pain.</p>
<p>The agony she'd felt in her chest the day she'd seen her mother die hurt more than any bullet ever could.</p>
<p>"You're due for more morphine," the woman told her. "Get to your bed, I'll fetch some."</p>
<p>Sveta nodded. As she moved over to her cot, past Guarnere and Alley, she didn't spare them another glance. Even a halfwit would've been able to read the pain in her face. She hated it.</p>
<p>But at least she'd get morphine. That would take the pain away, and help her sleep. Almost as good as alcohol. She eased herself down till she sat up against the pillows.</p>
<p>"Have fun?" Alley asked her.</p>
<p>Sveta scoffed. "Nothing related to getting shot in the stomach is fun, Alley."</p>
<p>"Ain't that the truth," he joked. "How long are you stuck here, Captain?"</p>
<p>She frowned. The doctor had spoken to her about that yesterday. She had awhile to go. He'd guessed middle to late December at the earliest. That gave at least a month in these cell walls. She told him as much.</p>
<p>"Well, shit. That's Guarnere's recovery time, too," Alley said. He laughed a bit. "Won't that be fun for you two? I'm out in just a couple of weeks!"</p>
<p>Sveta glanced at the Sergeant on the other side of Alley. Over a month with Guarnere for company. His dark eyes met hers. A month with Guarnere. Sveta huffed and looked away. At that moment she made a decision. She'd leave, as soon as she could, even if that meant going AWOL. She would not do two months in a hospital with Sergeant Guarnere as the only company.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0056"><h2>56. ...right before your eyes...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p><hr/><p>"You ever been to Paris, Casmirovna?" Since being told that her name was not the one attached to her rank, Nixon had taken to adding a certain inflection on the word. If a word could smirk, Nixon would have managed to assign that ability to her patronymic.</p><p>After nearly a month's silence, he approached her in the mess tent, midmeal, and Zhanna's heart skipped a beat. This was it. Nixon, always the one for dramatics, would detail her past with everything he knew in front of all the men. All of the 2nd Battalion would soon be privy to Casimir and Agata's fate, Zhanna's lies, and Nixon wouldn't have been sorry.</p><p>"What?" That's all she could think to say, all she could say. What kind of a question was that, anyway?</p><p>"Paris?" He repeated, slowly. "So you've never been, then?" With their new position of Mourmelon, being a train ride away from the capitol, soldiers had been spending weekends in the city, running wild among the bars, women, and poker games that seemed to be around every corner.</p><p>Zhanna shook her head."No, are you offering to take me?" Women and poker games were not something that interested her and now that she knew where the key and the Vat 69 was stored, she didn't need a bar.</p><p>"I'm all booked up, unfortunately," Nixon smiled. "But Sink wants to make sure you see the city of lights. Get some mileage on your soul."</p><p>Zhanna didn't have the heart to tell him that she had arguably seen more of the world than many of the men here but she didn't want to think about Russia, or their escape from Smolensk. That reminded her of what she had left and that Sveta wasn't by her side or nearby.</p><p>"You can't say no," Nixon said. "It's orders. CP has your train ticket." He clapped her on the shoulder, the tender one, and smirked when she winced. Without another word or waiting for an argument he left the tent, leaving Zhanna and her soup with the idea of leave. She hadn't been granted a pass before. It had seemed like a kind of luxury. There was the added snag of Buck not being around. She asked Muck and Malarkey if they had been granted a pass and their answer didn't endear the idea to her.</p><p>Wandering around a city by herself. Zhanna had a thousand warnings that told her it was a bad idea. Zhanna didn't want to go anywhere by herself. She supposed, draining the rest of her soup from the bowl, that she would have to deny the pass.</p><p>What would she do with a weekend pass anyway? A Red Army soldier on the streets of Paris didn't seem to bode well. Zhanna had wanted to distract herself from everything that fought to occupy the front position of her mind but a solo trip would allow too much time to sit and think. Thinking was Zhanna's enemy.</p><p>CP was sure to have an orderly who would give her train ticket to a more willing candidate. It was always busy, even when there was no battle to be fought. When the war seemed at its farthest away, all one had to do was step foot in the Battalion CP and you would be reminded of the frantic movements of battle.</p><p>Zhanna managed to stop an orderly and inquire about weekend passes. The private, Smith, looked nervous at her presence but showed her over to a desk.</p><p>"Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna?" He asked, confirming her name and rank. As if there were more women wandering aboard the base. Other than the nurses and the war correspondent that was always dashing around with her pen and paper, ZHanna hadn't seen another woman. Not since Sveta had been sent to the hospital. The correspondent had only been interested in Sveta but when she wasn't available, had turned to Zhanna once. Her interest didn't last long, she had interrupted Zhanna while cleaning her rifle.</p><p>"Yes," Zhanna said. "I wanted to-" Before she could get her words out, a voice cut her off.</p><p>"You too?" Winters had appeared behind her. When she turned around, she didn't find herself looking at Captain Winters but the man who she had sat with on the dike. The one who had visited her in the hospital and had asked after her family, his concern a sharp contrast to Nixon's intrigue. His dress uniform was crisp, the garrison cap tucked neatly into the waist belt of his brown Ike jacket, the design of uniform created by America's Eisenhower. His eyes were softer and his voice quieter. There was a difference between the two, that many didn't see.</p><p>"I'm sorry?" Zhanna blinked, trying to make sense of why he was here and what she, too, would have experienced. The orderly, Smith, didn't move, watching the two officer's exchange, ticket still in hand.</p><p>"Paris?" Winters said. "Sink gave you leave as well?"</p><p>Zhanna nodded.</p><p>"I have to admit," Winters said, laughing softly. "I was worried I would be going alone."</p><p>"Oh, I'm not going," Instantly she regretted saying it.</p><p>"You aren't?" Winters looked taken aback, a little disappointed, even.</p><p>"No, I don't think it would agree with me," Zhanna said. She could have lied. She could have let him think she was going. But that wasn't fair. Winters was a good officer, a good man. She didn't want to lie to him.</p><p>"Are you sure you wouldn't reconsider?" Winters asked. "I think we would both enjoy the break and the company."</p><p>She could have reconsidered. She could have gone. But it wasn't until Zhanna refused, said she was sure, and told the orderly to save the ticket for someone who really wanted it. Wishing Captain Winters safe travels, Zhanna left the CP, a bitter chill in the air. Or maybe it was just her? Shivering in the memories that were sure to flood her with their icy chill.</p><p>She could go get the key for Nixon's Vat69 stash. She could get a bottle and then lay in her bed, cramped in the attic of some forgotten building where she too would be forgotten and she would try to forget too. But if she was alone, Zhanna couldn't keep them at bay. Thinking was her enemy and she had just invited it into her mind. But she couldn't be bothered to climb all those stairs to Winters's empty office so she just went home. Or, rather, back to her billet. Not wanting to put in the effort to take off her boots, she laid on her cot fully clothed, feet hanging off to the side. Staring up at the rafters, Zhanna shivered. She lay there, trying to think of nothing. Emptiness. Blank space. But her mind wandered and it wasn't until 1800 hours did she allow her mind to wander back to Winters.</p><p>Winters's train was sure to have left by now, if not hours ago. Winters was sure to have arrived at the hotel that the Airborne would have put him up in, allowing him to rest. The rafters were not captivating her attention as they had previously. Sitting up, she looked around her billet. She could go get the whiskey. But that didn't feel right.</p><p>Drinking in a hotel in Paris sounded better than drinking in her billet, cold and alone. She would still be alone in Paris but she'd be in the city. She'd be in better company than here, with the spider's webs on the ceiling.</p><p>Was it too late? It didn't hurt to try, Zhanna supposed. CP was still lit with lamps and Smith was still behind his desk.</p><p>"Do you still have it?" She asked, a little breathlessly, having run across the camp.</p><p>"Oh this?" Nixon was sitting on an adjacent desk, as if waiting for her to appear. He had the ticket in his hand. "I bought you another when you missed the first train. Dick's feelings were hurt."</p><p>"I need the distraction," Zhanna admitted, snatching the ticket from Nixon's grasp. "And they likely have better liquor than your Vat 69,"</p><p>The train arrived in Paris at 2000 hours, leaving the streets dark. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she attempted to find her hotel in the shadows. After nearly twenty-one years of fear, Zhanna wasn't nervous to wander the streets at night. Something about the military dress uniform and the sound of her heels against the cobblestones put aside any fear that might have gripped her. With newfound confidence, she marched into the lobby of the hotel, blinking in the sudden change from darkness to the brightly lit room. While she could walk with confidence, her mind was racing when her feet couldn't and she ordered a bottle of wine up to her room, thankful that the Airborne would be footing the bill for that and any bottle thereafter.</p><p>Collapsing onto her plush mattress, the downy blanket soft under her back, Zhanna stared up at the ceiling. The view had improved, at least. Flashes of light danced across the vaulted space above. She tried to close her eyes, to rest them. Burned against her eyelids were her mother's eyes and her father's face. She could hear their voices. Perelko. Polyakova. Neither she would hear in person again, as she had promised herself she would. Her eyes misted. She needed a drink.</p><p>She used to comfort herself at night with the memories and the dreams of her parents. How it had been before and how she wanted things to be, when they came back. It was always when they came back. Zhanna had never entertained the idea that they wouldn't come back, pushing away any doubt. Because doubt was what killed hope and she couldn't risk that.</p><p>In the end, it didn't matter and she couldn't pacify her now racing heart with the feeling of her parents' hands in her own. She needed a drink.</p><p>Waiting in the semi-darkness, splayed out across the bed, Zhanna twisted her fingers along the hem of her uniform skirt. Her wine would be here soon and she could drink straight from the bottle, watching the lights flicker. That would be her tonic tonight, the sleeping draught to lull her into the darkness. Unlike Sveta, she knew her limits. Unlike Sveta, Zhanna still had something to live for: Sveta.</p><p>Zhanna grew impatient waiting for her wine. She had better go find it, then. Perhaps it had ended up in the wrong room? How many Airborne paratroopers were housed in the hotel, anyway? How many women? Zhanna did recall that, while her papers were being set in order, the man behind the desk who was likely responsible for any mixup with her wine had mentioned that they had a Captain from Easy Company across the hall. Who could that be but Winters?</p><p>Pulling herself up off the bed, Zhanna stepped across the room and into the hall, determined to find the whereabouts of her wine. Perhaps it had been mixed up? They had sent the wine to the wrong room?</p><p>Zhanna's fist hit the wood with too much force, sending a loud bang! Echoing down the hallway. She winced. There was a pause, as the noise died away, and the sound of footsteps took its place. Winters opened the door, his jacket gone, hung on the back of the chair that Zhanna saw under his arm. It sat by a table, atop which sat a bottle of wine. Looking up, she saw the surprise and then the confusion crossed his face before Winters managed to put together the words. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>Zhanna pointed through the door, to the bottle of wine. 'That's mine."</p><p>"Oh,"</p><p>Winters stepped back. It wasn't an invitation, not a verbal one at least. Zhanna didn't move. They stood staring at each other, Winters in the doorway and Zhanna in the hall. Rank had no place in this city. Paris was simple. It seemed to have one thing of importance, and that was to forget.</p><p>"Would you like to come in?" Winters asked.</p><p>Zhanna nodded. Not a word was spoken, as her heels sank into the plush carpet and Winters shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of the world beyond. Zhanna felt as if she had entered a private world. Something too personal to be explained but Winters didn't tell her to leave so she stayed.</p><p>The wine bottle sat, waiting for her. She didn't care if she looked eager, crossing the room in a few strides, and popped open the bottle. Zhanna needed to numb the burning behind her eyes and the feeling of ghosts in her hands.</p><p>"One day," Zhanna said, after tagging a swig of the wine and letting it run down her throat. "I'll come by for a social call, not just to drink."</p><p>Winters laughed. "I'm not sure I would know what to do."</p><p>Zhanna offered him the bottle, which she knew he would decline. He did, ever predictable. She stumbled over to the low bench at the end of the bed and sat down. Perhaps she was a little too familiar with a senior officer's hotel room but Zhanna didn't particularly care at the moment. Zhanna had wine and she could still feel the cool metal of Agata's wedding band against her skin. Not enough. She would only drink just enough to hide it. To numb this...this ache.</p><p>"I'm no expert," Zhanna said. "But usually social calls are conversation based."</p><p>"And what should we talk about?" Winters asked. "Nixon has already gotten all his information from you."</p><p>"Not all of it," Zhanna said. "And somehow, it doesn't feel like polite conversation to talk about…" Her voice trailed away. Winters knew. He had been there. He already knew everything he needed to.</p><p>"Have you heard from Captain Samsonova?" Winters asked.</p><p>Zhanna shook her head. She hadn't been able to visit her and she wasn't sure if Sveta would have welcomed a letter. Zhanna didn't think she wanted to talk to her. Not now. She needed to walk through these shallows alone. It was strange. The dreams she had let lull her to sleep so often, ones of hope and family and love, were fading fast now.</p><p>"What about Buck?" He asked. "You two were close,"</p><p>"We were allies," Zhanna said. "That's more than 'close"."</p><p>"How did you come to that conclusion?" He leaned against the table where her wine had sat, and crossed his arms across the dress shirt.</p><p>"He was well-liked, well-respected. I needed-"</p><p>"You needed that," Winters said.</p><p>Zhanna nodded. Winters seemed to understand more than most. He could read her, her thoughts, her emotions, and her past. He understood that she knew how to survive. He understood that allies were important to her. It was an unspoken alliance between them, he leaned against the table and Zhanna sat on the bench. But it still felt strong, a pull drawing them together, like a current.</p><p>"Winters," Zhanna started to say but he cut her off.</p><p>"You can call me Dick here."</p><p>Here. That was a distinction put into place. Here. In these four walls, in this city. In Paris, he could be Dick and she could be Zhanna. But did he want Zhanna Casmirovna or Zhanna Polyakova? She didn't want to risk it. And she couldn't bring herself to utter his name, not like Welsh and Nixon did. They were different. They were American. But the delicate balance of allyship</p><p>"Have you…" Her voice stalled, as her mind tried to explain what it felt like. What she was thinking at that moment. "Have you ever watched someone's memory die right before your eyes? You watch them just fade and you...you just know?"</p><p>Winters's eyes softened. He didn't have to say. He knew. "No, I can't say that I have."</p><p>"It's a horrible feeling," Zhanna sniffed, taking another deep draught from her bottle. It was almost half empty and she didn't think she should stay any longer. She could feel her lips growing looser and there was no point in spilling anything else. Zhanna stood, letting the bottle fall to her side, and Winters followed suit. They were closer than she had realized. She could smell his clean soap and freshly starched shirt, or was that her imagination?</p><p>He looked down at her. Even with her heels, he looked down at her. His eyes weren't brown like Nixon's, like Sveta's. They weren't dark, like the NKVD. They were blue. Like her's, like Buck's, but they looked almost icy. It wasn't cold, his gaze, but she shivered anyway. Her exhale was sharp, and she half expected it to come out in a fog, frosty from her lips.</p><p>Tucking her bottle closer to her side, she took a shaky breath and said. "Good night, Captain."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0057"><h2>57. ...you've nothing to lose...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p><hr/><p>Sveta paced by the window. November had come and gone, and with it, Heyliger to England and Moe Alley and Ron Speirs to the front. The frosted window mocked her, as out in France people got to go about their lives, free. She wasn't free. She was stuck in a hospital.</p><p>"Jesus, could you fucking stop. My leg is hurting just watchin' yah."</p><p>Stuck in a hospital with Bill Guarnere.</p><p>Sveta turned from the window. Most of the men in their section had left. Empty beds with perfectly tucked hospital corners glared back. Except for the one where Guarnere sat glaring down at a letter. They'd been told that a new round of wounded would be arriving that night and filling their ward.</p><p>Sveta didn't want to see that. After a month surrounded by groans and blood and screams from the ill, she wanted nothing more than to leave. Her wound had healed. She wasn't quite as strong as she'd been; the doctors told her the pain could stay for months. They wanted her to do physical therapy, stretches, build up the muscles that had been torn. They wanted her to rest.</p><p>She didn't want to stay another night. She didn't want to rest. She wanted to be outside, out where she wasn't near nurses or doctors. She wanted to be free. The sound of a jacket being pulled on tore Sveta's attention away from the window again.</p><p>"What are you doing?" she asked.</p><p>Guarnere froze in his movements for just the briefest moment. He'd pulled his uniform jacket on and laced up his boots. "I'm getting out of here. I ain't rotting in this fucking place." As he covered his wrapped leg with his pants, he added, "You gonna stop me, Captain?"</p><p>She didn't respond. As Sveta looked at him there, bent over and trying to make sure no bit of his cast showed, she weighed her options. Guarnere had never done anything to make her think about acting in his favor. Since Alley had left, they'd fallen into a routine. Ignoring each other as long as possible, the occasional trading of quips that were more intended to hurt than to amuse, and silence. Guarnere had never been one for silence, though. When he could, he'd chat with the other men.</p><p>Then it had just been them. The past two days were the longest two days of Sveta's life. But she had gained a new appreciation for him. He'd visited Heyliger and Compton multiple times. She'd seen the way he'd gritted his teeth against the pain and made his way through the halls to his comrades. He didn't need to do that.</p><p>"May as well shoot me this time, if you're gonna try." Guarnere stood, the same grit and determination against the pain written all over his face as when he'd visited his friends.</p><p>Sveta turned to him straight on, away from the window. "You won't get far, Sergeant."</p><p>He scoffed. "You're just a fucking ray of sunshine, ain't yah Captain." But he just moved down the cots, leaving her behind to limp away towards freedom.</p><p>Freedom.</p><p>"I'm coming with you, Guarnere."</p><p>At the door, he spun around. Sveta saw the way his eyebrows raised at her declaration. It was the same shock she'd seen from Talbert and Liebgott in Normandy. The same shock from Alley and More in the Netherlands. She wasted no time. Sveta already had her boots on. Throwing her coat over her body, she came to stand beside him.</p><p>"Are we going?" she prodded.</p><p>"You're going AWOL?"</p><p>Sveta rolled her eyes. "You may have noticed I don't particularly care about your Army's rules."</p><p>Guarnere snorted out a laugh. "That's a fucking understatement." But he nodded. "Let's go."</p><p>They looked down the hall. A couple of nurses stood speaking three doors down, about five meters away. Sveta grimaced. But their luck turned, both nurses moving into their room and leaving the hallway open. The first turn of luck in her favor since the Island.</p><p>She moved into the hall. No one said anything. Guarnere followed, a bit slower with his limp. But he made no sound, no groan at the obvious pain he was still in. Sveta wondered if his leg was still broken.</p><p>"So, Captain, would you really have shot me on that boat?"</p><p>Sveta looked over at him. She let her attention wander from watching for people who could try to stop them. She knew the game they had to play. Chin up, act like you belong. People had a sixth sense to tell if someone was trying to sneak around. But as she turned to Guarnere, standing level with him, she just smirked.</p><p>"That ain't an answer."</p><p>She just shrugged. "I considered it. But no, probably not. If I wanted to get rid of you I wouldn't use a bullet."</p><p>"That's fucking comforting," he muttered.</p><p>They reached the end of the hallway. Voices made her pause. They were female, probably young, coming their way. She glanced at Guarnere and tried to tell him to act natural.</p><p>When they turned right, the nurses nearly walked into them. Both apologized, gave them a quick glance, and then carried on. Sveta smiled. Too easy. To these nurses, they were just visiting soldiers. As long as Guarnere could avoid a limp in front of them, they'd get out fine until they needed transportation.</p><p>Sveta turned back to Guarnere as they kept walking. "Lieutenant Casmirovna is more likely to shoot you than I am, Guarnere. She wouldn't hesitate if she made up her mind."</p><p>"You're both fucking insane as far as I'm concerned." He shook his head. The pain in his leg seemed to increase as he walked. "But, she's an incredible shot."</p><p>That she was. Sveta nodded. "Casmirovna is the best shot with a rifle I've ever met. Russian rifle, American rifle, German rifle, doesn't matter."</p><p>They came to the exit. Sveta put her hand out to stop Guarnere. This was where it would get tricky. She took a deep breath, surveyed the area. A few clerks had workspaces on their left, and to the right, a surgeon chatted with two nurses. Sveta looked around. They had to do this carefully. The clerks she outranked. The surgeon was a Captain.</p><p>"Let me handle this," she insisted.</p><p>Guarnere didn't look happy, but he gave a short nod. Sveta walked forward. They would try to just walk out. Act natural. But she had a feeling that if any of the medical personnel looked their way, Guarnere's limp would betray them. Every step, Sveta felt her anxiety skyrocket.</p><p>The doors closed behind them. As Sveta went to smile, though, a man on their left stopped them. The black armband he wore placed him in the Military Police. A staff sergeant. "Hey, are you two cleared for discharge?"</p><p>"When you speak to an officer, I expect you to salute, Sergeant," Sveta said. She kept her voice even, a bit too even, hoping to catch him off guard. Her hair was down, but that didn't mean the men were looking for signs that they spoke at a woman. As expected he straightened up, saluting.</p><p>"Ma'am, sorry. Captain."</p><p>Sveta saluted back. "Where are the jeeps, Sergeant?"</p><p>"Captain, if you're not discharged—"</p><p>"Sergeant, do you know who I am?" Sveta stepped a bit closer to him. His back was against the brick of the hospital, and he shook his head. "I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, Captain in the United States Army, official Soviet Liaison to Colonel Robert Sink in the 506th Airborne regiment, officer and sniper in the Red Army, and personal friend of Premier Stalin, leader of all Russia."</p><p>He looked at her, eyes widening. It took all her focus not to laugh at the way his shoulders tensed, his fingers fidgeted with the loops and flaps of his uniform.</p><p>"So, I ask again, Sergeant—" she looked at his uniform "—Johnston. Where is the motor pool?"</p><p>"It's around that side of the building." Sergeant Johnston gestured towards the left. "You can find a jeep there."</p><p>"Thank you. Carry on."</p><p>She turned around to find Guarnere watching her with a barely hidden smirk. With her arm, she gestured down towards the motor pool. He followed her.</p><p>"Fucking hell." Guarnere couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head and turned to her as they got out of earshot. "Where the fuck did you learn to be so terrifying? I mean, Jesus."</p><p>Sveta allowed herself to smile. "Many years of practice as the daughter of a politician. It comes in handy here. In Russia the threats mean more, though," she added. They rounded the building. "Here they are more of a bluff than anything else."</p><p>"It's no wonder you murder everyone in poker. Fuck," he muttered again.</p><p>Rows of military jeeps sat dormant. A supply officer, a Lieutenant, stood looking at a clipboard while a sergeant chatted with him. A troop truck beside them had two soldiers and two more hopping inside. She knew Easy was stationed at Mourmelon-le-Grand, east of Reims.</p><p>"Lieutenant, where is this truck going," Sveta demanded. Walking over, She made sure her hair was out of the way of her Captain's bars. "Is it heading towards Reims?"</p><p>He startled for a moment but nodded. "Yes ma'am. It's going there. But we've got everyone—"</p><p>"You will add two more to that," Sveta told him. "Captain Samsonova and Staff Sergeant Guarnere."</p><p>"I can't—"</p><p>"Do you see the bars on my shoulder, Lieutenant?" When he nodded, Sveta nodded back. "Good. Then we'll be going." She turned around and told Guarnere to get in first. Yet again, she watched as he suppressed a grin. It must've been hard. Sveta knew how much he enjoyed pushing buttons.</p><p>She didn't recognize any of the men in the transport. Sveta didn't mind at all. Leaving them to their gossip, she stayed towards the back, letting herself rest against the truck. Her abdomen hurt a bit from the activity, but not enough to worry her. She wanted to get back to the line. She didn't care that she didn't have her Russian rifle. They would probably have a spare at Mourmelon. The lack of a sidearm bothered her a bit. But she couldn't do anything about that. Demanding the sidearm off of an officer while going AWOL was a step too far even for Sveta to try.</p><p>The engine started. The sound jolted her. Sveta's eyes snapped open again. With a deep breath, Sveta did her best to relax her shoulders, her whole body tense. But the wind that managed to ruffle her hair, the smell of gasoline and crisp winter air, it soothed her nerves. It had been months since she'd seen any sign of another Russian. It seemed that she'd finally left Beria's grasp.</p><p>She'd figured that if he would strike anywhere, it would be in the hospital. She was a prisoner there. No way out, subject to inspections by the nurses. It would've been the perfect place for a spy to find her. But he hadn't.</p><p>She and Ron had taken walks every few days before he'd headed back to the 2nd Battalion. She'd considered his words more than once. It would've been a lie to say she'd never thought about asking Sink for political asylum. If she could get out of the war alive, it was potentially an option.</p><p>Maybe. If she could find a way to prove the danger Russia posed for her. If she could find a way to convince the Americans that she wasn't a spy herself. If she could stay out of Stalin's clutches.</p><p>A lot of ifs. But for the first time, as Sveta watched the hospital fade into the distance, she thought that at least the possibility of a possibility existed. Sveta felt a rush of excitement. Hope? Was that what hope felt like? It felt remarkably like the thrill of jumping from an airplane. Like freedom.</p><p>Night fell. She knew that the four men deeper in the truck had drifted off, likely trying to catch last minutes of peace before being back in drills and workouts. The silence filled Sveta with a deep sense of peace.</p><p>A sound like thick fabric scratching against wood made her open her eyes. Sveta looked across and saw Guarnere had scooted over, now lighting a cigarette. He'd won it an hour previous in a poker match against the other men from the 101st. Sveta turned and looked back outside from the truck.</p><p>"Captain?"</p><p>She turned to him again. He held out the pack of cigarettes. For a moment, Sveta just looked at the smokes. Then she glanced up at him. His dark eyes glowed in the faint light of his own, lit cigarette. He didn't move it.</p><p>"Thank you." Sveta reached out and took one. At least she still had her lighter. Pulling it out, she made quick work of the cigarette and let the smoke fill her mouth. Not nearly as good as alcohol. But it had to do.</p><p>They sat in silence again. It amused her to no end how open of a book Guarnere was. His leg bounced up and down and he fiddled with his lighter. She let him squirm a moment more.</p><p>"What do you want to ask, Guarnere? Not like you to keep your mouth shut."</p><p>Instead of a glare, he just grinned, and let out a small laugh. But then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and removed his cigarette. "You really friends with Stalin?"</p><p>Of all the questions she'd expected, that had not been one. Sveta tensed. Her left hand gripped the fabric of her coat. "Why are you asking?"</p><p>He shrugged. "Can you fucking blame me for being curious? You don't talk to no one, Captain. Not even Casmirovna much. Well, not except Speirs. It's just fucking weird."</p><p>"That's not true," she protested. Sveta turned to him. "What does that have to do with being friends with Stalin?"</p><p>With a grin, he took his cigarette back out. "Cause Captain, you don't got friends." He clearly could see the way Sveta felt the heat rising to her cheeks because he added, "That ain't an insult. It's just a fact. So I don't know. I guess I wanted to know if Stalin's one of them."</p><p>She frowned around her cigarette. Honestly, Sveta hadn't realized Guarnere was so perceptive. Though perhaps she hadn't been nearly as poised as she'd meant to be. Removing the cigarette, she glanced back at the four men. They slept soundly, or appeared to.</p><p>"My father is a friend of Stalin," she admitted. "I would not consider myself a friend."</p><p>"So you don't like him?"</p><p>Sveta sighed. She looked at Guarnere. "Please stop."</p><p>"What? I'm just—"</p><p>"If I told you more, I could be putting my life in danger, Sergeant," she told him. Sveta knew she'd not get away with ordering him to shut up. Guarnere didn't work like that. He didn't like being told no. So she had to give him something. "Stalin doesn't have friends. He has allies. Allies are only allies as long as the two parties are beneficial for each other."</p><p>His gaze followed her as she tapped off some of the excess ash. Then she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth. With her arms across her body and one leg over the other, Sveta tried to stay calm. Of all the men in Easy Company she wanted to be having this conversation with, Guarnere was perhaps lowest on that list. Though maybe not. He seemed satisfied, leaning back and plopping his own smoke back in his mouth.</p><p>"Well, at least you're on our side," Guarnere said, a minute later. "You're fucking insane, but you shoot almost as good as Casmirovna."</p><p>Sveta couldn't help but smile. With a small shake of her head, she smashed the end of her cigarette on the seat beside her and then tossed it out the back of the rolling truck. "You talk too much, and you're a bit of a jackass," she added. Sveta turned to him and nodded. "But you're a hell of a leader, Guarnere."</p><p>He burst out laughing. "Thanks."</p><p>As the truck rolled on, bouncing through the French countryside as night fell around them, Sveta took a deep breath. Reims. Mourmelon-le-Grand. And then who knew where else? They were supposed to be off the line for rest until maybe even Spring. Sveta wasn't sure she wanted that. But maybe the rest would do her good. Maybe the rest would be just as freeing as strolling along a line on a riverbank. Maybe she could spend more time with her friends.</p><p>Friend. She only had one, and he'd already returned to duty. She couldn't wait to do the same.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0058"><h2>58. PART FOUR: ...hold my hand...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>PART FOUR</p><p>"They knew that life nowadays was harsh and bare,<br/>that they were often hungry and often cold,<br/>and that they were usually working when they were not asleep.<br/>But doubtless it had been worse in the old days.<br/>They were glad to believe so."</p><p>- George Orwell, Animal Farm</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>December 17, 1944 | Mourmelon-le-Grand, France</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>Buck returned to them in December, his skin paler than the winter sky. He was a phantom of the loud and confident man that she had allied herself with. But then again, Zhanna wasn't the same girl he had found in England and offered his popularity to. They had both changed in this war, ghosts of who they were when their feet hit British soil. Buck had been a ray of bright sun, golden and fierce. Now he shone dimly, his light dulled by the cold and the things he had seen.</p><p>Buck wasn't the strong man he had been, his fingers shook, and though his wounds were healed, he seemed to waver. Zhanna had never been strong, never been the one to take the lead off the battlefield but someone had to be strong. Someone couldn't waver so Zhanna had to be strong. She couldn't grieve, not with Buck frail and withdrawn, so she pushed down raw feelings and became what he needed. Zhanna couldn't grieve and be strong, so she didn't unpack the thoughts that had still haunted her. The ghostly hands and the whispered voices, those had to be ignored, pushed to the side so that Zhanna could lead Buck through the motions of each day.</p><p>They didn't speak often. Their voices were rough when they did, thick with emotion and unused. She told him about her parents, he told her about the hospital. He had listened to the screams of patients, hurting and dying. She listened to the whispers of her dead mother and father. Buck didn't want to talk often and Zhanna found that ignoring things was easier when you didn't talk about them. So silence stretched between them, for days on end, only broken by the menial discussions of Military life or what Skip and Malarkey were up to these days. Simple things. Safe things. Because thinking too hard was dangerous. Thinking was Zhanna's enemy and it was Buck's worst nightmare.</p><p>She didn't allow herself to think of Paris, either. It was another world. One where barriers had been knocked down in one fell swoop. One where Zhanna had forgotten her rank and so had WInters. She didn't avoid him but maybe he avoided her? Their paths didn't cross much and for that she was thankful. She couldn't think about the cold way he had made her feel, the chill that had sent shivers down her spine but there had been no numbness. Zhanna didn't freeze in his gaze, almost warmed under it. But she couldn't thaw or still, not when Buck needed her and the cold of December had gripped Mourmelon.</p><p>Zhanna had taken to spending as much time in the warm hall that played films on a projector for hours, settled in the uncomfortable chairs. Buck would sit with her and they would spend a whole afternoon watching movie after movie on that crackling screen. It was one of the only warm places in camp, a particularly frigid winter had gripped Europe that year, and Zhanna meant to take advantage of it.</p><p>The film, Seven Sinners, seemed to be a particular favorite among the volunteers who ran the cinema and Zhanna found herself sitting through it for the fifth time on a very cold night, Buck motionless by her side. Luz, a frequent visitor to the hall, seemed to know every word and had no qualms with spouting the lines along with the actors, much to Toye and Lipton's annoyance. Zhanna didn't mind it as much. She had seen the movie too much and Luz's commentary made it more enjoyable. Malarkey's poor attempt at a whisper did more to jar her from her thoughts. The men had been traversing to and from Paris with more frequency. Malarkey had been given a day pass and, while Zhanna had returned with only a headache and a stabbing pain in her heart, he had a handful of cash. Zhanna twisted around, wondering how much he owed her in cigarettes by now.</p><p>"Skip, where have you been?" Malarkey hissed, loud enough that Zhanna wouldn't have been surprised in the German line had heard him. "I've been looking all over for you."</p><p>"Well, Don," Skip deadpanned. "I was at home in Tonawanda but then Hitler started this whole thing so now I'm here."</p><p>Zhanna shook her head as Perconte gasped in disbelief at the money in Malarkey's hands and earned a sharp reminder to shut up from Lipton and Toye. She would have tried to join them, maybe weaseled a few bucks off of the mortarman for cigarettes and the money she had lent him but a familiar voice sent shivers down her spine.</p><p>"Hey Buck," Winters succeeded in whispering, something that not all of the enlisted had learned yet. Zhanna glanced over her shoulder but Buck hadn't moved, or made any sign that he had heard Dick. He continued to stare vacantly at the flickering film, neither understanding it or the world around him.</p><p>"How are you feeling?" Winters continued, not taking his silence as an answer. "Your wounds heal? All four of them?"</p><p>Buck had been left with more than just bullet wounds and that was difficult to comprehend. Outwardly, he looked the same, maybe a little more distant but Zhanna knew that his shoulders would flinch at a loud sound and he hadn't smiled in the three or four days he had been back. The Buck they had known always had some flirtatious or mischievous grin.</p><p>Buck didn't answer but still, Winters pressed.</p><p>"You've seen this before?"</p><p>Zhanna laid a hand on Buck's arm, startling him. But the contact brought him back to the land of warm people and visible emotion. He flinched hard but finally acknowledged the world around him, as if he had been deep asleep.</p><p>"Hey," He greeted Winters as if seeing him for the first time. That drove a knife deep into Zhanna's heart. He had looked at her the same way, when he had first stepped on the transport. They had regarded each other with caution before he wrapped his arms around her small frame and held on tightly. She hadn't been sure who needed reassurance more, Zhanna or Buck?</p><p>"Is it any good?" Winters asked.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah it's a real corker."</p><p>The chair creaked as Winters leaned back, silence falling over the three of them. Zhanna was just thankful he wasn't trying to bridge that chasm between them, the one she had made on the train home from Paris. It was easier just to keep it all inside. She was fine. Everything was okay and it couldn't be anything else, not when Buck was vacant and Skip and Malarkey were wreaking havoc in the city every weekend. Not with Sveta still in the hospital. It was just easier to lean against the hard back of the chair and listen to Luz repeat the same line over and over and over. At least that was consistent. At least then she knew what to expect. Predictable. That was all she wanted.</p><p>But Winters's eyes were heavy on the back of her head, almost willing her to turn around. She looped her hand through Buck's arm, trying to anchor herself and him to this room. To this camp. They weren't in Paris anymore. They weren't in Russia, Poland, or England. They were in France. Predictable. That's what she wanted. She couldn't think too hard about anything. Thinking was her enemy.</p><p>The doors to the hall opened and the harsh, deliberate steps of officers with a purpose pounded against the floor as they called for the lights.</p><p>They flickered on and Zhanna withdrew her hand from Buck's arm, as light flooded every surface. The men booed, protesting the abrupt end to their cinematic experience but the officers shouted. "Quiet!"</p><p>Once at the front of the room, the officer spoke quickly and with the weight of orders behind them. "Elements of the 1st and the 6th Panzer Division have broken through in the Ardennes Forest,"</p><p>The anger at the movie being stopped dissipated. Zhanna's palms began to sweat. Uncertainty took the place of the anger, sending worried glances between platoonmates. They were going to be sent out into the snow and the cold. Zhanna's mind threw her back to the cold attic room of Maria's home, where she curled up in the night, shivering. Her breath would form ice crystals on the blankets. Her toes would be purple before dawn. Zhanna didn't want to go out into the snow. She could already feel her fingers growing numb.</p><p>"They have overrun the 28th infantry and elements of the 4th."</p><p>And now, they would be sent to slow their approach, nothing but roadblocks. Zhanna looked over her shoulder at WInters but he didn't meet her gaze. His mind seemed to be working.</p><p>"All officers report to respective HQs and all passes are canceled." That got the men into an uproar. The officer had to shout to be heard. "Enlisted men report to barracks and your platoon leaders."</p><p>They left as quickly as they came, leaving the cold air of the night in their place and the rippling fear that was always present after orders. Every man had seen a friend fall by now. Every man knew that they could be next. These orders might be the last that they would get.</p><p>Skip and Malarkey rose before Zhanna did, marching through the doors with shoulders hunched in resignation. Zhanna watched as the enlisted men rose and left. Predictability. That's what she had wanted. She should have known that in war there was no such thing. Buck, Zhanna, and Winters were the last ones. Still seated, staring at the now empty screen. Zhanna almost wished that she could watch the damn movie one more time. Just to stall the inevitable.</p><p>Winters stood first, as a good leader did. He paused, unfolding his cap and staring down at Buck and Zhanna. There was something unspoken that passed between them. A wish that things were different. But every soldier wished that. Every soldier wished that they were hundreds of miles away from war, that they were home, that they were safe. Zhanna still wished for that but she couldn't picture where home was anymore. Slowly, under Winters's watchful eye, she stood.</p><p>If she was going to be killed in battle, fate would have it be in the snow, Zhanna thought bitterly.</p><p>Buck didn't speak, following her out of the hall, in Winters's careful footprints.</p><p>She let him lead her to HQ where she packed up the last of her belongings, a meager portion of ammunition, her rifle, her journal, and the pen that had been dulled down to a nub. It seemed that her winter coat had never arrived and neither had the thick sweater that some of the men wore under their ODs. Zhanna was shivering before her feet touched the frozen ground. She let Buck and Winters lead her through the throngs of people, nowhere else for her to go. She was an officer, even if it was only in title.</p><p>"Captian Winters," Peacock pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers.</p><p>"Lt. Peacock?"</p><p>"Have you seen Colonel Strayer?" Winters asked. "Where's the company commander?"</p><p>He didn't even bother to utter Dike's name which was the only opinion of him Zhanna needed.</p><p>"Oh, Lt. Dike, I've been looking for him all day," Peacock said. "How is it that the 4th Army's problem gets dumped on the Airborne?"</p><p>Before Zhanna or Buck could give an answer, Dike appeared as if uttering his name in a less than favorable tone had summoned him. "Lieutenant Peacock, Lieutenant Compton. Captain Winters, sir,"</p><p>"Lieutenant Dike, I've been looking for you," Winters didn't have to use words to express his annoyance. Zhanna could hear it dripping from every syllable. They paused beside a barrel filled with flames that barely penetrated the cold settling deep inside her bones.</p><p>"Sir, we've got a problem. Colonel Strayer has not yet returned from some wedding he's attending in London." Lieutenant Dike blustered. He sounded astonished that an officer wouldn't be at his post in their hour of need. Zhanna wondered why this scenario was so foreign to him. "Can you believe that? We are going to the front and our CO isn't even in the same damn country,"</p><p>"You have a bigger problem, Lieutenant Dike," Winters said, the flames dancing off his red hair. Even though his voice didn't show a drop of fury, his appearance was all fire. "You have men returning to action without proper cold-weather clothing and not enough ammo."</p><p>"Sir?" His disbelief was incriminating. Dike didn't know what was happening, just as Dike hadn't known who or what Zhanna was.</p><p>"I suggest you take a canvas of the entire base. Get what materials you have before you roll out. Or have you done that already?"</p><p>"No sir," Dike said, almost sheepishly.</p><p>"K-rations, as many as you can scrounge. We don't know if we'll be resupplied or not."</p><p>"What about ammo?" Peacock asked.</p><p>"There is no more ammo."</p><p>That hit Zhanna harder than the orders. She had only a few rounds left in her pockets.</p><p>"Distribute it amongst the men as best you can so at least everyone has something."</p><p>"Yes, sir," Dike said. But instead of owning up to his oversight and correcting it, he did exactly as Zhanna expected him to. Dike turned to Compton and Peacock and said, "Lieutenant Compton, Lieutenant Peacock, inform Lieutenant Shames of the situation. Get all your platoons as best equipped as you can and then report back to me, understood?"</p><p>"Yes sir." Buck and Peacock nodded, forced into compliance by orders and rank. They disappeared into the crowd.</p><p>Zhanna had wanted predictability and she had gotten her wish. When Dike turned to her, he didn't even get a chance to open his mouth.</p><p>"I'll see that Lieutenant Casmirovna is placed safely on a transport," Winters said, dismissing Dike with a wave of his hand.</p><p>Zhanna breathed a sigh of relief but it caught in her throat. She shivered beneath the ODs that did little to stave off the winter chill.</p><p>"Thank you," She said. "I didn't want to fetch and carry."</p><p>Winters nodded. "Let's get you on a transport before they all fill up."</p><p>Zhanna preferred the trucks to the C-47s. They were packed with soldiers, benches and floor, and they were all grateful for the close proximity. Body heat kept them from shaking too much. Zhanna sat in the middle of the pack, closed in by Skip and Penkala in the attempt to keep her warm but there was still a chill in the pit of her stomach, a cold that couldn't be warmed away. The engines were loud and the road bumpy, making conversation difficult but that didn't stop Easy Company from trying.</p><p>"I guess the blackout's not in effect," Buck said, the headlights of the transport behind them illuminating the truck bed. Zhanna could see the nervousness on every man's face, even though she could feel it taught in the air. "Luftwaffe must be asleep,"</p><p>"What a difference a day makes, huh, Lieutenant?"</p><p>"Christ I miss those C47s," Guarnere grumbled, though Zhanna couldn't imagine why. She wouldn't be landing in some field on her own, at the mercy of the winds and the timing of a green light. Zhanna was assured of company and allies by her side this time and she was grateful.</p><p>"Gotta tailgate jump here," Talbert said, wryly.</p><p>"I just wanna know why they are sending us," Heffron asked, his accent thicker in the cold. "What the hell are we supposed to do with no ammo?"</p><p>Zhanna buried her face in the collar of her coat, trying to keep her nose from freezing. Already she had been told it was as "Bright as Babe's hair," and "Didn't Russians know how to handle the cold?"</p><p>Guarnere had gone AWOL with Sveta, though Zhanna had yet to lay eyes on her fellow Russian. She was in one of these transports, somewhere in the line. She didn't think she had the energy or the willpower to find her in this cold. She was sure they would cross paths on their own, once they were out on the line. Zhanna shivered again though it wasn't the cold. Being out on the front line without a parachute felt strange. Being out on the line that was said to be a frozen forest in virtual seclusion wasn't much better.</p><p>"You got any ammo?" Heffron had turned his attention to a replacement whose name Zhanna didn't bother to remember.</p><p>"Just what I'm carrying," Came the familiar reply.</p><p>"What about socks?" Toye asked. "Got any extra socks?"</p><p>"A pair," Came the naive reply. Zhanna shook her head, ready for Skip's rhyme before he even opened his mouth.</p><p>"You need four, minimum," His finger waved to emphasize his point. "Feet, hands, neck, balls."</p><p>"Extra socks warms 'em all,'' Came the chorus of voices in the back of the transport, amid a few eyerolls. They had all heard this ditty at least once.</p><p>"Good, we all remember that one," Skip said. "But did we remember the socks?"</p><p>"I'm sure Casmirovna has an extra pair for you, Junior," Guarnere said. Zhanna could only shiver in response. He muttered bitterly. "Give my goddamn boots for a cigarette,"</p><p>We are all out of ammo and socks, Zhanna thought. She prepared herself for the cold feet and the trembling body that she had once been familiar with but had since forgotten. Zhanna had taken warmth for granted. She had taken the layers she had worn for granted. Even her undershirt, buttoned uniform shirt, and OD jacket weren't enough.</p><p>"Anybody got a cigarette?" Penkala asked. "Anyone but Casmirovna?"</p><p>"I got some smokes," the replacement said and suddenly, as Easy was wont to do, he became their best friend. Hands appeared from jacket pockets, reaching for a Lucky Strike. Zhanna would have tried to play a joke on the new man, offering him a cigarette from the infamous pack but she had long since run out.</p><p>With a shudder and a bump, the transport abandoned the gravel road they had been following and pulled into the frozen mud and fields of farmland, following the direction of several soldiers on the side of the road. The tailgates were dropped and they were told they had only a few minutes.</p><p>"Where the hell are we?" someone asked.</p><p>'Sure we ain't in hell," Malarkey said. "It's too damn cold."</p><p>"Casmirovna, this remind you of home?" Sergeant Grant asked. She didn't answer.</p><p>The men ran off to the side to relieve themselves and Zhanna wrapped her arms tight around herself, wandering away towards the jeeps that had been charged with delivering the officers and HQ. She could have found Sveta. She could have found Winters. But her feet were frozen to the ground.</p><p>Remind you of home? If home was Russia, and the frozen fields were the snowy plains of cobblestone streets, where men and women shivered, barely covered in the thin clothing, then yes, it reminded her of home.</p><p>The smell of gasoline filled the air and flames burst into life along the trail, and men flocked to them like moths to a light. She didn't move towards them. She didn't bother. Home, the feeling and the family, seemed to be floating down the road toward her. Lines of men trailed past the transports, ignoring the Airborne like they were ghosts bound for the land beyond. Zhanna shivered, not from the cold or from fear. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing your future. While Easy fought and wrestled for ammo from the ghosts of soldiers, Zhanna just stood. If she was going to die in battle, of course it would be in the cold. Life had a sense of humor and it was paying her back for avoiding its path so often. If she kept cheating death, Zhanna should have known that it would find some despicable way for payback.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0059"><h2>59. ...does she believe her fiction...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
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<p>
  <strong>18 December 1944 | Mourmelon-le-Grand, France</strong>
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<p>The dark and cold of 0400 in mid-December broke only for the flashing of headlights and zippo lighters. Sveta stood at an oil drum, hands over the raging flames in a desperate attempt to grab warmth before returning to her jobs. Shouts and pounding boots echoed around her. She had lost track of Winters and Nixon after a last-minute meeting with Sink, the former heading off to locate his Company Commanders, the latter looking to find whatever information he could from the Brass above them. Sveta didn't have to do that. She just had to look after herself.</p>
<p>The fragile peace of the previous night had broken while most of Easy sat in on a movie. Sveta hadn't joined them. Harry had asked her to join in on a poker match, which she also had declined. Instead, she'd been asked by Colonel Sink to do an interview with the little round-faced, blonde war correspondent she remembered seeing back in England.</p>
<p>The woman, who Sveta had come to know as Sophie Connors, had sat her down in one of Sink's offices at Regimental HQ. She had all sorts of questions. Apparently, the enterprising young women of America wanted to know what it was like to fight in combat. The WASPs, the WAVEs, the WAC all asked to hear her story.</p>
<p>Sveta didn't like the attention. Even as Sophie had poked and prodded about her time with the men, she'd tuned her out. When Sophie had come to the more sensitive ones, ones about her home life and training in Russia, she'd answered as any trained diplomat would.</p>
<p>Sveta knew how to say nothing an infinite number of ways. "We do our best," was one of her favorites. It could be used in almost any situation. Armed with years of half-truths and masks, she'd navigated the interrogation with poise and skill.</p>
<p>She'd been rather proud of herself by the end. Even as she stood around the oil drum, bare hands already cracked from the cold finding almost no relief in the flames, she smiled. The rush of freedom she'd felt while escaping the hospital, the jail cell that had kept her caged, had remained in her stay in Mourmelon-le-Grand. No Alexander, no Stalin, no Beria. Just her and her allies.</p>
<p>Maybe Americans weren't so bad. Sveta looked into the dark again as a group of officers from Able company hurried by. Their CO barked orders, but in the noisy chaos, Sveta understood nothing. As much as she'd hated the Americans for being so loud, it did mean she could watch from and fade into the background.</p>
<p>With a sigh, Sveta moved away from the flames. It didn't take long for the cold to seep back into her bones. The Americans hadn't issued winter clothing yet, and now they were headed to Bastogne. She'd never been there, but Sveta knew from the reports that winter in the Ardennes would only spell trouble for the men who were woefully underprepared.</p>
<p>Sveta wasn't underprepared. She'd been in true cold before. She'd spent winters in Leningrad, taken trips to Finland. And now she had a different fire to keep her warm. With every passing day, Sveta had thought about Ron's words in the hospital. Did she really have to go back? Back to the place where she was more marionette than woman?</p>
<p>If she got through the war, maybe she wouldn't have to.</p>
<p>As Sveta reached the door into the building where she and Zhanna split a room, she nearly ran into the war correspondent. Sophie's eyes widened, tensing as she saw Sveta. She startled back.</p>
<p>"Pardon me," Sophie said.</p>
<p>Sveta waved her off. Wasting no more time, she hurried through the entrance to the stairs. Inside had the luxury of no wind, but the heat had faded long ago with the endless opening and closing of doors to the outside. Sveta spared the men passing her barely a glance. They were set to leave in less than half an hour.</p>
<p>It surprised her that the door to their room stood slightly ajar. She supposed Zhanna had left it as such. She couldn't blame her; all of them were in a rush. As she stepped inside, she looked around. Her Mosin-Nagant sat on the bed next to her packed bag. Just as she'd left it. Inside, she'd stuffed as many pairs of socks as she could, along with six wash rags, four packs of cigarettes, and two pillowcases. She wanted to bring as many layers as she could.</p>
<p>Zhanna's side of the room stood empty of necessities. With a last look around at the ransacked room, she nodded to herself. Time to go.</p>
<p>Sveta turned to the door. Her gaze drifted to the desk. Pausing, Sveta looked closer. She knew Zhanna had gotten into pressed flowers, drying them and putting them into her journal for safekeeping. But her heart skipped a beat as she saw the ones on the desk.</p>
<p>Red roses.</p>
<p>Beside them, a slip of paper with Cyrillic script. Someone, Zhanna apparently, had begun to write a note. But she'd only gotten as far as the greeting at the top before abandoning it. She wondered who Zhanna had been writing.</p>
<p>She wondered why only the roses and the note had been left behind.</p>
<p>For the tiniest moment, she wondered if it had been Zhanna at all</p>
<p>But pounding on the doors down the hallway tore her attention away. Sveta forced down the growing anxiety. Of course, it was Zhanna. There were no other Russians in Mourmelon-le-Grand, and she knew Zhanna loved her flowers. She must've been called away in the middle of her work.</p>
<p>"Let's go! Let's go! We move in twenty!"</p>
<p>She pushed the door open and hurried down the hall. With her pack over her shoulders and rifle in hand, Sveta moved past the lieutenant banging on the doors for the officers. She left the shelter behind.</p>
<p>"Easy Company! Hurry it up!"</p>
<p>She heard Lipton's voice carry through the early morning chaos. The wind bit at her face even as she stuffed another pillowcase around her neck like a scarf. The Army could bill her for stealing it later. She knew that coverage would be paramount for surviving the elements. And she intended to survive.</p>
<p>Sveta wasn't going to die from an enemy bullet, and she certainly wasn't going to die from her own. As her boots pounded against the concrete, she smiled against the cloth. The heat of her breath warmed her face a bit.</p>
<p>"Svetlana, over here." Harry stood by a truck, taking names as he watched enlisted bundle into one. "We've got a lovely ride this morning."</p>
<p>"Fucking hell," she muttered. But she nodded, and hurried over. Accepting Johnny Martin's hand, she hoisted herself inside just in time to grab one of the last seats. "Thank you."</p>
<p>Martin nodded. "That a pillowcase, Captain?"</p>
<p>She smiled even though she knew he couldn't see. Offering him a simple nod, she turned and offered Harry her hand. He accepted, slamming into the last seat next to her. Hashey and Garcia were the last to scramble in, taking up spots on the truck bed. Both looked about as pleased with the development as she would've expected. As the tailgate slammed shut and a staff sergeant locked it, Sveta looked out.</p>
<p>She hadn't even seen Zhanna since the news had broken of their new mission. But she knew she probably had found her way to Compton or Winters, or maybe the mortar squad. She would be fine. Zhanna knew the cold as intimately as Sveta did.</p>
<p>"I can't fucking believe it," Harry muttered. "I was just starting to enjoy the time off."</p>
<p>She watched as his head hit the side of the truck, helmet bouncing off one of the metal beams. She smirked, and pulled down the pillowcase from over her nose and mouth. "You've been off the line for weeks, Harry."</p>
<p>He nodded. "Yeah, and it wasn't enough. I was expecting another letter from Kitty."</p>
<p>She shrugged. Hopefully, their mail would find them, for his sake. She didn't particularly care. No one she enjoyed corresponding with ever wrote her, just her father. She hadn't gotten a letter from Lana Stalina in several months, and Lana's brother Vasily never wrote. She would've enjoyed hearing from him.</p>
<p>The engine roared to life. The entire truck buzzed. Randleman lit his cigar, and Spina and Roe, further inside the truck, split a couple of cigarettes. It didn't take long for the whole truck to fill with smoke. As it began to move down the road, she took a deep breath.</p>
<p>A few hours in, she felt a nudge on her right arm. "Any idea what we're in for, Captain?" Martin asked her. He raised his voice to be heard over the clamor of irritated enlisted men.</p>
<p>She pulled the cover off her mouth again and turned to him. "We're heading to Bastogne. It's going to be cold."</p>
<p>He rolled his eyes. "I take it that's why you've got the fucking bedsheet on your face."</p>
<p>"Yes." Sveta broke into a grin. Looking away, she saw Randleman watching them and gave him a small nod of encouragement. Then she turned back to Sergeant Martin. "All those times you Americans asked if Russia is cold?" When he nodded, she smirked again. "This will be cold."</p>
<p>"Lovely."</p>
<p>Harry nudged her on the left. He held out a cigarette, which she accepted gladly, and lit it. A few hours later, just as the sun beneath the horizon began to lighten the sky from black to grey, the jeep stopped. The men had fallen quiet, frozen from the cold and the cramped quarters. When she slipped out of the jeep, her legs stung. Already, flaming piles of gasoline had been lit to provide a bit of comfort.</p>
<p>She moved over to one. Keeping her hands in her sleeves, Sveta allowed herself to adjust to standing up. They had work to do, a lot of work. They'd been short on ammo, short on medicine, short on clothes. They had gaps in their forces. They had untrained replacements and underprepared veterans.</p>
<p>But they would hold the line. Sveta moved away from the fire to look down the road. Men, more like zombies than soldiers, trickled down the road. Chills ran down her spine, and not from the cold.</p>
<p>But then she saw the snow. By the light of the early morning sun, which began to turn the sky from grey to deep blue, she saw the little flakes landing on her American uniform. She remembered the stories of the Winter War. She remembered the tales of bravery from the defense of Stalingrad. She remembered her comrades on the Eastern Front.</p>
<p>They would hold the line. She and the Americans would not be the ones to fall. They would stand together against the Nazis. And maybe, if she could help hold that line, Sveta could make up for the evil her father had participated in. With no Alexander, no Stalin, and no Beria. Just her, the Americans, a rifle, and the falling show.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0060"><h2>60. ...everything's not fine...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly</p>
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<p>
  <strong>December 18, 1944 | Bastogne, Belgium</strong>
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<p>The cold only increased with their movement into the forest. The trees cast shadows that were dark as pitch in the middle of the day, sending shivers down Zhanna's back. They had no coats her size and very few blankets. Skip had tossed his thin patch of wool that passed for an army-issued bedroll over her shoulders before they parted ways. Easy was split up, planting themselves in the frozen ground like seeds. But with no sun and no supplies, Zhanna wasn't sure how long it would take before they shriveled up. Wrapping herself tighter in the blanket, she stopped at the base of an oak tree, where Buck had already tossed down his pack and removed his small shovel, reading himself to start digging their foxhole.</p>
<p>He seemed brighter now. Was that just necessity or had he found something in this cold snow? There was no sunlight that managed to trickle down in the thick branches so perhaps Buck had designated himself to be the bright spot. But even his sun couldn't stave off the cold.</p>
<p>"You know," He panted, the sweat perspiring on his brow despite the cold from exertion. "You could always give me a hand."</p>
<p>"I really couldn't," Zhanna said, as if she hadn't just assisted in setting up CP's sorry excuse for a headquarters some several hundred meters back. That's where Winters and Nixon would be digging in now, preparing themselves for the night that would come. With the night would likely come their first signs of opposition. The German line that they were promised was through the trees. Zhanna had wanted predictability but she had gotten an almost faceless enemy. Toye and Smokey were closer to the break in the trees but she didn't want to wander through the snow and cold to find them.</p>
<p>"Asshole," Buck said but he smiled, really smiled. She removed the threadbare blanket gingerly and reached for the shovel. "No, no," He protested. "It's fine. I've got it."</p>
<p>Zhanna sank to her knees, beside the plot that would become their home for the foreseeable future. It could have been their grave, too. The thought didn't leave her mind, no matter how she willed it to. Silver in the brown mud but she would be silver hair in the white snow. Buried, frozen, and dead. Miles from the last thing she had known as home. She couldn't look at the now deepening trench without thinking of bodies, blood, and her death. Zhanna cast her gaze around her, hoping to replace the thoughts. The forest bore scars from the previous battles. Shattered trunks, broken limbs. Zhanna looked up into the sky, barren branches stretching out like fingers.</p>
<p>"Dick said something about a cousin," Buck said, suddenly. How they had gone from foxholes to family? How much had Winters told him?</p>
<p>"I don't want to talk about it," Zhanna said, perhaps a little too sharply, a little too quickly. If she was trying to pass it off as an unconcerning matter, the crack in her voice betrayed her.</p>
<p>"A cousin?" Buck repeated. "A cousin in the SS sounds like something we should talk about."</p>
<p>"I said, I don't want to talk about it," To talk about it would mean thinking about it. Out here, in the woods, with only the snow and her thoughts. If she opened that door, everything would come flooding out. The river's current would pull her and Zhanna couldn't allow that.</p>
<p>"Alright then," Buck said, muttering under his breath, the word "Rude."</p>
<p>Zhanna wasn't being rude and she said so.</p>
<p>"You are being kinda rude," His eyes were sparkling, showing that he was just joking with her but Zhanna wasn't ready to let it go.</p>
<p>"It's not rude to not want to talk about something," she said, crossing her arms tight against her chest, in indignance and for warmth.</p>
<p>"It's not like we have a wide range of topics for conversation," Buck said, gesturing around them at the trees and the figures of other paratroopers digging in. "What are we gonna talk about? The snow? It's white. Very cold."</p>
<p>"What do you think about the snow, Buck?" Zhanna asked.</p>
<p>"It's white, very cold," He said, cracking a smile, though the empty look never left his eyes. "So, cousin?"</p>
<p>Zhanna was stubborn, unmovable like the frozen earth. Buck couldn't just pick her apart like the snow-covered ground. She didn't want him to win and she didn't want to say. Opening her mouth meant opening up to other things. Other things that were better left locked away with a silver chain and guarded with a rifle.</p>
<p>"Dig the damn foxhole, Buck," Zhanna said.</p>
<p>Alliance or not, Zhanna wasn't ready. To his credit, Buck shut up and dug the foxhole. He didn't bring it up again that day. As the light began to die, she slipped into the foxhole beside him, fingers numbly pulling the thin blanket around them both. She fought to get comfortable in that coffin in the snowy ground, trying to keep thoughts of death and frostbite out of her mind. A sharp pressure on her ribs persisted and, to Buck's grumbled annoyance, she moved again, reaching a hand into her pocket and withdrawing the leatherbound journal.</p>
<p>She hadn't opened its pages since Holland. She hadn't written in its pages since England. It had been one last goodbye, a final wish before the jump into Normandy that she would see her parents again. One final step towards them. There was a page, marked with 1944's Chanukah dates. She had thought she would be home, some distant hope that she would be home. Today, the 18th of December, was the last night. The final candle. That stung more than the wind against her cheeks. It was a smarting, aching pain and it was almost too much.</p>
<p>"Cousin," Zhanna said. "Janusz Sadlowski."</p>
<p>Buck didn't say anything at first. Maybe he had fallen asleep? Maybe he didn't care anymore? But then his voice, muffled by the scarf wrapped tight around his neck and the blanket over his face, cut through the silence of the forest.</p>
<p>"Doesn't sound very Russian," Buck mused.</p>
<p>"No. Polish." Zhanna said. "Like me."</p>
<p>Beside her, Buck lifted the blanket off his face, peeping over the hem to stare at her through the darkness. No one around them spoke, not a sound filling the air. Silent snow fell around them, dusting Zhanna's bare head.</p>
<p>"Right," Buck said softly, as if he understood what that meant. As if he understood how it felt to finally give the piece to her puzzle to the man who had kept her alive. He had been her ally when she was Russian but would he stay loyal when she was Polish? "I'm guessing it wasn't a good family reunion?"</p>
<p>"How did you guess?" Zhanna said.</p>
<p>She shivered. "I hate the cold." Before Buck could crack a joke, she raised her hand to stop him. "I hate the cold because it reminds me of my parents leaving. It was very cold that night."</p>
<p>She looked down at the pages, flipping through them. Weeks, months, years. That's what she had documented in these pages and now they were all void. Hope that hadn't been justified or rewarded. Faith in her parents, in herself, gone. Life wasn't fair. Life was never fair to people like her. Maybe she had power here now, a reputation with the rifle beside her and the friend who was always before her but none of that had done her parents any good.</p>
<p>Don't think, Zhanna murmured to herself. Thinking was her enemy. If she just didn't think about it, just ignored it, maybe it would stop hurting. Ignore the thousands of words that she had written, the pencils she had worn down, and just keep moving. She would keep fighting in this war. Keep pushing. If she made it through the war, if she fulfilled her debt to Sveta, Zhanna would stop. She would step back, like she always did. And then what? What would she do?</p>
<p>Home wasn't in Russia. Home wasn't in Poland. Where would she go? That safe place had been an imaginary destination that was the capstone to her almost realized dream. The dream that didn't have a place in her life anymore.</p>
<p>"How do you find Bastogne?" Buck asked. Zhanna laughed. He was changing the subject for her, letting her forget.</p>
<p>"Cold," She said, her lips chapped and trembling.</p>
<p>"And the snow?" Buck continued.</p>
<p>Zhanna tucked the journal back into her pocket, adjusting its position. It didn't press against her ribs anymore and she could almost forget it was there. Almost.</p>
<p>Burying herself under the thin blanket and against Buck's warmer shoulder, she whispered. "I find the snow white. Very white. And cold."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0061"><h2>61. ...forget the fear...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Svetlana | Silmarilz1701</p>
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<p>Sveta knew fear.</p>
<p>It had come into her life in 1935, and the fear had controlled her for many years. She'd learned how to navigate with panic stifling her breath, constricting her heart.</p>
<p>After fear came despair. Between Beria and her mother's suicide, for many months Sveta had come to think that she would die by her father's gun as well.</p>
<p>Then the hatred had crept its way into her life. Hatred fueled the blood in her veins, kept them blazing. Even in the grey mists of the Ardennes, surrounded on all sides by a thousand identical trees, snow blanketing each inch, that hatred kept her warm.</p>
<p>The briefing ended with news of the assault on 1st Battalion. The Nazis had an overwhelming force. 1st had stood no chance. They had been slaughtered. She saw the uncovered faces of the men around her fall. Despair?</p>
<p>Not yet. But definitely fear. Their shoulders hunched inwards, a few rocked on the balls of their feet. Nearly half of them hugged themselves across the chest. In the dark and cold of Bastogne, they shivered equally as much from fright.</p>
<p>Sveta kept her face covered as much as she could. The pillowcase stuffed with a washrag trapped the heat in, covering her nose and mouth. The less exposed skin, the better. Sveta knew this. Fur would've been better, though.</p>
<p>She'd have taken their version of winter clothing over the nothing they'd gotten. But Americans knew how to fight in the winter just about as well as the Nazis. When Sink dismissed them, Sveta stepped away and watched. Winters drew himself up to full height, chatting with his voice low to Nixon, Harry at his side. Dike wandered off. Buck followed him with Peacock and Foley and Shames. Ron joined McMillan and the rest of Dog's officers in walking towards their line. Fox's men petered about. Not despair. Not yet.</p>
<p>She moved over to Zhanna. "How was your night?"</p>
<p>Zhanna sighed. She all but curled in on herself. They all felt the cold, and Zhanna was smaller with less body heat than most. "Cold. But I'm fine."</p>
<p>"I miss the furs from back home," Sveta admitted. Switching to Russian, she added, "<em>I'm not sure these men understand the real danger of the lack of warm clothes."</em></p>
<p>"Maybe not." Zhanna nodded, staying in English. "But they will. We'll need to help them."</p>
<p>Sveta agreed. Looking around, she tried to stay calm. The endless rows of dark tree trunks contrasted against the white snow and grey fog. Oppressive silence embraced the world. After staring off into the distance, she turned back to talk to Zhanna.</p>
<p>But she'd already wandered off. Sveta frowned. Her retreating form shadowed Compton.</p>
<p>"Hey, Svetlana." Harry called over to her from where he stood with Nixon and Winters. "Come here."</p>
<p>Sveta pulled her makeshift scarf back over her face. When she joined them, Nixon moved to let her into their little square. She nodded her thanks. Hatred for Lieutenant Dike hadn't mended their relationship, but at least they had a common enemy within their own ranks.</p>
<p>"I want you to up on the line for now," Winters told her. He shivered where he stood, face a bit paler than normal. "Coordinate with Lipton in Easy and Speirs in Dog to keep an eye on the men."</p>
<p>"Why me?" she asked.</p>
<p>Winters sighed. "They're going to need your experience. You and Casmirovna know better than anyone what this is going to be like," he explained.</p>
<p>Nixon agreed immediately. He gestured to the scarf. "Using the bedding from Mourmelon was inspired. I wish we'd thought of that ahead of time," he admitted.</p>
<p>"If I'd had time, I'd have suggested it," she said. Sveta met Nixon's gaze and nodded once. She appreciated his words. Turning back to Winters, she pointed off towards the trees. "Morale is going to be as hard to keep up as their physical well being."</p>
<p>Harry agreed. "Yeah, we were talking about that."</p>
<p>"Thoughts?" Winters asked.</p>
<p>Sveta took a deep breath. The cold hurt her throat, but she stifled down a cough. Ways to keep morale up? "Keep them active. Move between foxholes when possible, anything to keep the blood flowing and their minds from wandering." She glanced between them. "Fear is your greatest enemy here. If we look scared, the men will follow."</p>
<p>Harry nodded, looking at the dirty snow beneath his feet for a moment. Nixon and Winters just exchanged glances. Sveta sighed. Things were already bleak. They had to learn how to wear masks.</p>
<p>"Play the game," she finally said. Sveta paused as they looked at her in confusion. "It's a deadly game, but it's a game. The cold, the silence, the loneliness. They're just pieces in the game, like us."</p>
<p>"How do we fight them?" Harry asked.</p>
<p>She wet her lips, trying to fight the cracking that already started to set in. "Dike is going to be the biggest problem." She saw Nixon scoff out a laugh and Winters and Harry just grimace. At least they agreed. "Think of him as an enemy. Anyone, anything that isn't helping us survive is an enemy. And act accordingly. Watch him. Keep him in check. The men need to know that we can win, or we've already lost. The fear is what we're fighting now."</p>
<p>"I had no idea you could give such great speeches, Samsonova," Nixon teased.</p>
<p>Sveta just rolled her eyes. "When necessary, and when people will listen." After a brief pause, all four of them shifting where they stood, she took a deep breath. "This is a battle I've been fighting since I was thirteen, gentlemen."</p>
<p>"The cold?" Nixon asked.</p>
<p>"The fear." She looked over at Winters. "I'll head up to the line. It may help that the men don't exactly love me. I can keep an eye on them as a third party."</p>
<p>"Right. Get back here by dinner," he told her. Then he sighed. "Go to Lipton or Buck if you need help with Dike."</p>
<p>Sveta smiled, glad that the scarf was down off her face. "Dike won't be a problem, I can assure you."</p>
<p>"Oh, please shoot him," Nixon muttered. "That would be such a great story. 'American Lieutenant shot for insubordination by female Red Army Captain'."</p>
<p>With a short laugh, she just shook her head. "Then I'd get shot. If you'll excuse me, I have a job to do. As I'm sure the rest of you do," she added.</p>
<p>Harry laughed as she turned away. Once more Sveta found herself staring at the endless lines of dark tree trunks. Many stood in proper lines. Haunting, really. With the mists still hanging over the land, it made her more than a little nervous to head in the direction of the 2nd Battalion.</p>
<p>Each step sounded much too loud. The snow sucked the life out of the air, each tree barely moving in the small wind. Sveta looked up. Dark fir branches stretched overhead. On the ground lay a mix of dirt and snow.</p>
<p>She kept moving. The more she moved around, the warmer she would feel. And though hatred for the Germans kept her simmering, it couldn't keep out the cold entirely.</p>
<p>"Captain?"</p>
<p>Spina's voice came from the right and up ahead. She looked over and found him and Roe sitting in a foxhole. Sveta made her way to them. As she crouched by the side, Sveta looked first at them and then the surrounding area. A few other foxholes weren't far, and she saw Lipton chatting with Luz. She pulled the scarf off her face. "How are you two?"</p>
<p>"Just fuckin' dandy," Spina muttered. He pushed himself up to sit on the side of the foxhole. "Could do with a blanket or ten."</p>
<p>Sveta forced herself to smile. "We all could. It's only going to get colder. I need you two to keep me informed of any medical problems you might encounter."</p>
<p>Roe nodded. "You mean like trench foot?"</p>
<p>"Trench foot, pneumonia, frostbite," she added. "But be on the lookout for other odd behaviors. Loss of focus, shell shock, trauma. It's our job to keep the company sane as well as safe."</p>
<p>Both Spina and Roe promised they would do just that. She trusted them. They were good men. But as much as she needed to talk to them, someone else took priority and she watched him start to walk off.</p>
<p>"First Sergeant Lipton!"</p>
<p>Lipton turned back to her, as did Luz and the nearby Shifty and Guarnere. She nodded to all three of them as Lipton joined her. He fidgeted with his hands, trying to get them inside his feeble coat. Sveta led him a bit away from the men.</p>
<p>"What can I do for you, Captain?"</p>
<p>"Lipton, we need to talk." She took a small breath and nodded, almost to herself. "I won't lie. This is going to be as tough mentally as physically for the men." When he agreed, she relaxed. Lipton understood. "I'm here for Captain Winters, to keep an eye on things and give what help I can with managing the cold."</p>
<p>"It's appreciated," Lipton told her. He sighed as well, and looked around. Foxholes were still being carved out, deepened to be safer. "We can use all the help we can get."</p>
<p>"I know. And your CO is useless." If it hadn't been so depressing, Sveta would've laughed at how Lipton, who often tried so hard to mediate disputes and name-calling, didn't try to defend him. "As long as I'm on the line, I want you to feel free to bring any issues with that man to me."</p>
<p>Lipton smirked. "Yes, ma'am."</p>
<p>"I'll set him straight."</p>
<p>He gave a small laugh. "Guarnere's been talking about how scary you are since he got back from the hospital."</p>
<p>Sveta broke out into a grin. Looking past Lipton, she saw Guarnere sitting by a tree, chewing at a ration. Malarkey and Toye were with him. "Hey, Guarnere."</p>
<p>Everyone looked up at her. Sveta forced her smile away as Guarnere met her gaze. She moved over to him, passing the medics who seemed to watch her with close apprehension. Malarkey and Toye both stood as she reached them, but Guarnere just stayed sitting on the ground, totally at ease as he ate his can of rations.</p>
<p>"Got an extra bedsheet, Captain?" he asked.</p>
<p>Sveta just scoffed. "Not for you."</p>
<p>"Well, that ain't nice," he muttered. Guarnere looked up at her from his meal. "Is this what Russia's like?"</p>
<p>"In Siberia." Sveta couldn't help her smile. "You'll all adjust. Just keep moving. You have to keep the blood flowing." As she realized no one was saying anything, Luz, Toye, and Malarkey seemingly shocked that she was even conversing with Guarnere, Sveta smirked. "Are you all scared?"</p>
<p>"Us?" Guarnere laughed. "No fucking way. If two broads can handle the cold, we'll be fine."</p>
<p>She nodded. Bitterness could keep them warm, too. It worked for her. Let them jab and joke. It would be better for them to be angry enough to move around than scared stiff in a freezing foxhole. Reaching for her nearest cigarette pack, Sveta plopped one in her mouth and lit it. "Want one?"</p>
<p>Guarnere accepted it. She offered it to Toye and Malarkey, who still stood watching her. After a brief moment, they both accepted as well. "Luz?" She turned to him.</p>
<p>"What are you charging, Captain?" he joked. But Luz wasted no time in taking one.</p>
<p>Sveta shook her head. "They're free." She started off, but after a few steps, she turned back. Sveta took out her smoke and smirked at them. "Though Lieutenant Speirs sends his regards."</p>
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